


What We Become

by Crisium



Series: What We Become [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2010-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 134,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crisium/pseuds/Crisium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen/Amell, post-game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Empty Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon Age: Origins belongs to Bioware, along with all recognizable characters.

Disclaimer and Author's Note:

Dragon Age: Origins belongs to Bioware, along with all recognizable characters.

"What We Become" is the sequel to the stories "What We Are" and "What We Were". Cullen/Amell, post-game, so spoilers, spoilers everywhere.

* * *

There's no warning, save a messenger's breathless news: the Archdemon is defeated, the Blight routed, Ferelden saved. There isn't any celebration at what remains of the Circle, only a collective sigh of weary relief. It isn't long before the bodies of fallen templars start coming in, returned to the Circle in wagons by the few of their battered brethren left alive. In the aftermath of Uldred's revolt, there are few enough templars left as it is; now the number in the Circle is scarcely more than a handful.

There are more dead than alive, and soon the dead are only ashes.

The Tower is very, very quiet. The footsteps of the few who remain seem drowned in the cavernous emptiness of places where people used to live. Had it been otherwise, Cullen might not have heard it at all, but down a long circle hall where no one else should be comes the wet sound of panting and snuffling breath. _A demon_, he thinks as his heart plummets and he draws his sword. A blood mage that must have been missed or an abomination that evaded the sword somehow. Nothing's supposed to _be_ here. With the sudden focus of impending battle he can hear shuffling footsteps along with the licking of heavy jowls, and he tries to pinpoint the location in his mind as he creeps around the corner, sword raised to strike at the—

Mage.

_Her. _

Therrin Amell is lost in thought and trailing fingertips along the stone wall, expression distant as though listening to faraway music until the mabari at her side barks at him and she blinks, twice, and stares at Cullen hollow-eyed and silent.

"You," he breathes in disbelief, lowering the sword even though something screeches in his mind _don't trust it, it's a trick_ and the hair on his arms stands up in foreboding. "What are you doing here?"

Her forehead creases a moment in confusion, as though she doesn't understand him, doesn't speak the language anymore. "I came back."

That much is obvious and unhelpful and besides, she doesn't look like herself. The gray robes hanging from her frame are foreign and she'd never seemed so… so _blank_ before. It could still be a trick, couldn't it? A demon inside her, perhaps, using her like a puppet. Hadn't she been there when the Archdemon had fallen? "Why?" Cullen demands, tightening his grip on the sword. How many times had he heard it whispered among the mages that the Circle was a prison, that they'd give almost anything to be free of it?

Her fingers splay across the dead stone. "It's my home," she says at last, in a voice as empty as the Tower itself.

Cullen scowls deeply. "_Home?_" It comes out harsh, surprising him with its bitterness. "Look around you. There's nothing left here anymore." She does look, sort of, eyes drifting over everything like she doesn't really see anything at all. Cullen notices that there's still blood on the wall, high up where no one has cleaned yet because the Tower is large and those left inside are few. They have bigger problems than bloodstains in hallways where no one is supposed to be.

The first flicker of something like feeling creeps into her expression. Curiosity and… anger? "Why are _you_ here, then?" she demands.

It's the last thing in the world he expects; second-last is the click-sharp silence where his response should have been except he doesn't have one. "Because I'm a templar," he manages finally, sheathing his sword and ignoring that it was only half an answer.

She nods once, exaggerated as though her head is too heavy. "And I'm a mage." The mabari whines at her side, ears flattened against his massive skull as he looks up at her in a plea she doesn't seem to notice. "I should get up to bed. I'll be in the… in the apprentice quarters, I suppose," she says faintly, swallowing thick as though it hurts.

The whole thing feels wrong and his armor suddenly doesn't seem to fit. "Why?" At her blank look he continues, "You don't have a bed there. You're not an apprentice." Though granted, he thinks, she could probably have her pick of beds now. There's hardly a crowd.

There's a long stretch of quiet as she considers his words, looking perplexed, and it's only then Cullen realizes she's got one hand on the mabari and is leaning on him for support, trembling in place. It only deepens his unease. "You passed your Harrowing, don't you remember? I was there."

Best not to think about that. Or about after, when they'd talked, or after that when he'd got word that she'd been taken away.

_What's _wrong_with you?_

"Of course." The words come out numb and toneless as though she's been made Tranquil. "Mage's quarters, then."

"You don't want to go up there. There's still… it's still bad," Cullen manages to get out at last, even though bad is a vast understatement. Even without the bodies, there's still more wreckage than anything else, death in every stone and splintered piece of wood.

She seems to process the thought slowly. "Then I'll be in the library."

She starts off without another look at him, leaning on the whining mabari as she turns the curve of the hall and disappears. As soon as the door clicks closed behind her Cullen stops holding his breath and lets out a long, ragged sigh.

By the Maker, why? _Why? _He could scream. And no one would hear him, he thinks with an edge of hysteria, he could scream himself hoarse and there'd be no one around to care.

But if the Maker has answers, He doesn't share them with Cullen. Raking hands through his hair in frustration he bites back a grim, bitter oath and turns to follow the mage, trying not to think that he's going to regret this, and dearly, and _soon_.


	2. The Empty Tower

Therrin Amell has been drunk precisely twice before in her life. The first time was in camp with Leliana and a bottle of sweet wine, and it had only taken a few swallows before the world had become pleasantly warm and fuzzy. They'd giggled together over…she can't remember, exactly, just that it had been girlish and silly, and Leliana had crooned an Orlesian lullaby and combed her fingers through Therrin's hair as she'd drifted off smiling into flower-scented dreams.

_Amell_, Leliana had said later (because _Therrin is a boy's name_, Leliana had protested, and never called her anything but Amell, and nothing ever sounded quite so sweet as it did when Leliana said it), _you should smile more often_.

The second time was in some nameless tavern with Oghren with a tankard of something that tasted like liquid bread and salt and dirt and warmed her from the inside out as the dwarf had belted out the bawdiest songs he could think of to see her blush (and it hadn't taken much). Morrigan had been disgusted. Alistair had…

She doesn't want to think about Alistair. Or Morrigan either, really.

Sleep deprivation is not quite like being drunk, but it's close. She barely feels the floor beneath her feet and the hallway of the Circle Tower seems to sway before her eyes, pitching away from her, rushing up to take her, never in the same place twice and going bright and dim without warning. She hasn't caught more than a few minutes' sleep at a time since Denerim, not since she'd woken up to find herself by Riordan's body in the palace and the Warden's motto had rung through her mind like a bell: In death, sacrifice.

_Duncan would be appalled at our cowardice_, she'd whispered over Riordan's armor. Alistair hadn't taken it well. It had shocked her how quickly it all went from bittersweet to just _bitter_, the way his face had fallen and the flint-hard anger in his eyes when he told her to get out. He'd meant the room, she suspects, but she'd fled the city, and once outside the gates of Denerim there was only one place she could think to go.

Exhaustion makes it hard to think clearly. The darkspawn dreams of before had been nothing to the soul-scouring nightmares that plague her now, and she forces her eyes wide open, gritty and dry as they are. Not much farther and she can sleep, and if it comes to the worst, at least she's home. Better to be here, surrounded by templars whose swords will make absolutely certain she's a danger to no one else.

Or at least one templar, anyway. She hasn't seen any others yet. Perhaps Cullen is all that's left.

A swarm of presences lurks just out of reach of her senses, like the buzz of a cloud of mosquitoes too small and quick to see. Spirits, or ghosts. Demons, possibly, waiting for something to come along. Wynne would be able to tell. Therrin gets a vague feeling of interest as the swarm presses in closer, and she thinks _it's no good, I'll only kill you_ at the whatever-they-are. The sense of interest subsides, fading away into the dull roar in her head and slipping out of her perception altogether.

An angry templar, the smell of old blood, and ghosts. Welcome back, she thinks dully. But even broken as it is, the Tower is home in a way she hadn't even known she missed. Every stone is familiar, every curve and piece of latticework cries out with memory. In that corner over there, Sarelle—three years older and possessed of seemingly infinite knowledge—had giggled and flushed her way through a whispered explanation of sex. Over there, Jowan had stolen the chain of dried flowers Therrin had been studying and stiffened it into a circle with a newly-learned ice spell, plunking it like an ugly crown on her head. The memory hurts like the twist of a knife, because if Jowan had only stuck to ice and flowers who knows how many lives could have been spared? And if she'd really been worthy of a crown, any crown, she'd be in Denerim, still, and not stumbling her way through the empty Tower.

Tears sting at her eyes but she's too tired to cry, and anyway looking up at yet another seemingly endless staircase is daunting enough to kill any other feeling. Perhaps this whole idea was a mistake. Or perhaps coming this far was far enough, and no one will mind if she sleeps on the hallway floor.

There's a quiet clanking of armor as Cullen stalks around the corner, clearly looking for her, his face tight with impatience when he finds her. "What do you think you're doing?"

_Staring like an idiot up the staircase, obviously_, she almost says, and wonders if he'd carry her if she asked. Not that she intends to ask. But Cullen's frown deepens and for a moment she thinks he looks very like Greagoir. "Nothing," she says at last, because he's expecting an answer.

That wasn't the answer he wanted, apparently. He seems angry and the cold metal of his gauntlet makes her shiver when he seizes hold of her arm and starts marching her up the stairs. "Just _come_ on."

It's easier to obey, then, to be shepherded along like a half-dead lamb up innumerable steps and down endless hallways and not have to think. It's only when Cullen lets go to deposit her on a dusty bed and searches around for a blanket that it dawns on her that part of his anger might be worry. If he'd truly been angry at her, he would have taken her to Greagoir first, wouldn't he? Unless Greagoir had died. She can't remember. When he frowns and bends to look under the bed she leans forward to look too, and to tell him not to bother because she doesn't care. But she's weary and off-balance and leans too far, and only barely catches herself from toppling over with a hand on his shoulder. She doesn't have time to compensate and pull away when he begins to straighten and is only dully surprised to find herself mouth-to-mouth with Cullen in a kiss.

If this could be called a kiss at all. He's not moving and she's too tired to pull away and there's nothing sweet or happy about it in the slightest. She's vaguely aware that this is, in all probability, his first kiss and it's terrible and guilt batters like bats at her brain because no one deserves this.

His gauntlets are cold on her shoulders as he pushes her away, ashen and distrustful. "Don't do that again."

"I won't," she murmurs, swaying in place as the world begins to darken. "I'm sorry."

Something nameless flickers across his face but Therrin only registers it for a moment. She is home and safe and bone-wrenchingly exhausted, and she barely has time to lay down before sleep grabs hold of her and yanks her down into the wide-open arms of a nightmare.


	3. The Faithful Companions

Two minutes. Two and a half, at most. That's how long it takes Cullen to stare at the sleeping mage—already grimacing at dreams, twitching away from something unseeable—before he lets out a deep, leaden breath and decides that this is something far above his station.

Greagoir, he thinks. Greagoir will know what to do. But the Knight Commander just looks puzzled at the news, wondering aloud if Cullen might need more time to rest and recover. Imagining it all, Cullen hears, and feels his neck get hot with irritation and shame. When he insists that the situation is real, Greagoir follows for a look of his own. "I see," is all he says as he considers the mage. "Interesting."

The mabari at the bedside seems to shrink away from Greagoir, whining at his sleeping mistress and looking wretchedly forlorn.

"And there was no one else," says Greagoir, hardly a question.

"No." Cullen corrects himself, "Just the dog, ser."

Greagoir considers this another moment in unrevealing silence. "Very well." He looks to Cullen. "Carry on," he says, and before he gives any indication of what Cullen is supposed to carry on _doing_ he turns and goes, leaving Cullen to blink at Therrin and the mabari in a quiet-rising tide of hysteria.

Carry on what? What's that supposed to mean_, _anyway_?_ Kill her in her sleep? Lock her in the Tower? Make sure she doesn't consort with demons? Stand guard? Juggle?

Would it have killed Greagoir to be just a little more instructive?

"There's nothing here, you know," he mutters in the mage's general direction as he decides standing guard is the best thing to do and settles in for a long watch. "I don't know why you came back at all." There isn't an answer, and Cullen's sigh in the silent room seems to come from his very soul.

-oOo-

Sometime in the middle of the night, she wakes.

He doesn't see it—he must have drifted off, because the lamp's gone out and the room's pitch-dark—but he hears Therrin roll over and give a muffled noise like a laugh. "Hello. You've been here all this time, haven't you?" she says sleepily, quiet and amused and unaware that Cullen's heart's just come to a screeching halt because there's suddenly no air in the room.

"I've hardly paid you any attention at all, have I? And you've been such a good protector. I'm sorry," she goes on, voice soft and throaty with sleep in a way that makes his heartbeat hammer in his ears. He would speak—he wants to speak—but his mouth's gone dry and the old stuttering problem seems to have roared back with a vengeance because what in the world is he supposed to say to that?

There comes the sound of rustling blankets before she speaks again. "As soon as I can I'll see to it you get some good meals. And a huge bone."

It's only then that Cullen realizes she's talking to the dog at her bedside and not to him and feels incredibly grateful she can't see him turn colors with embarrassment. _I am not jealous of a _dog, he insists to himself. It doesn't stop his face from feeling hot.

Thankfully it's only moments before her breathing evens out again in sleep. Still, he can't help but think the dog's panting sounds suspiciously like laughter, and it does nothing to improve Cullen's mood.

-oOo-

When Cullen leaves—hours or an eternity later, he doesn't know—the hallway seems painfully bright in comparison to the sleeping quarters. _Greagoir_, he thinks blearily, squinting his eyes. There has to be more to what's expected of him than 'carry on,' and in any case, he's got to get some decent sleep and a meal. Were the hallways always this long?

But the Knight Commander isn't in his office when Cullen goes to look, and he's distracted by his worries and so doesn't pay attention when he rounds the curve of a doorway and nearly barrels into Wynne and the red-bearded dwarf. Neither of them seem happy, and the look Wynne gives him floods him with the unaccountable guilt of a little boy caught stealing a sweet. "Tell me she's here," Wynne snaps without greeting or preamble, looking harried and sour.

Cullen's mouth is open and he can't seem to close it. More than anything, he's just tired. "What?"

Wynne's arms are folded across her chest, lines around her pursed mouth making her frown seem deeper than it is. "Therrin came back to the Tower, didn't she? I can't imagine where else she'd go."

The dwarf looks around the hall with undisguised skepticism. "I can think of other places _I'd_ go."

Wynne is still scowling at him like an angry grandmother. "She's here. She came… yesterday? I _think_ it was yesterday," Cullen manages, distracted by the headache beginning to throb at the front of his skull. "She's sleeping. Back this way."

Only she isn't, and the room where she'd been is empty. Of course, _that's_ the point Greagoir decides to show up as though from thin air: the moment where Wynne looks ready to spit nails and the dwarf grinds out "You've _lost_ her?" as though it's somehow Cullen's fault she has two legs and the ability to walk.

"She was here when I left her," Cullen retorts ungraciously and he's about to say something to the effect of _and just _when_did she become my personal responsibility and what in the Maker's name did I do to deserve this?_ when memory sparks like steel behind his eyes and he knows where she is.


	4. The Untranquil Mind

Tranquility is such a pretty word. She's never had the kind of bone-deep aversion Jowan always had to the Tranquil. If they are tools, so is she, and isn't it better for a hammer not to feel the blows of being used?

As much as Jowan pretended to know everything (always ready to show off the latest spell he'd learned, broad and quick-minded and why hadn't she _known?_) he'd never had the taint running in his veins and curling in his brain like a creature alive. He'd never been terrified to close his eyes because his dreams were so much worse than anything he could imagine awake. And as far as she knew, he'd never been dragged dreaming into the Fade to find demons waiting, claws at the ready as they hissed his name.

For all Jowan had known so much, he hadn't _understood_ anything.

In a cluttered corner of the library Therrin sits cross-legged on the floor, running fingertips down the rough edge of a book that had scarcely ever been read before, so new it had cracked when she opened it. Unsurprising, really. Most mages would probably rather avoid the subject of becoming Tranquil, or pretend the possibility didn't exist.

Of course, most mages wouldn't run like a frightened cat from Denerim back to the Circle Tower and near-collapse in relief at the sight of a templar, either.  

It takes a bit (because none of the volumes are titled something truly helpful like "So You Asked the Man You Love to Make a Demon-Baby with a Witch and May Have Doomed the World Because You Were Too Chicken to Die Like a Proper Grey Warden—Now What?") she stacks the books that seem relevant enough beside her, corners precisely aligned out of habit.

Guilt is ugly and bubbles up thick below her heart, even as she tries to push it away to read. This temporary fascination, this dalliance with a way out is only another stunning display of cowardice. Feeling hollowed-out and wretched is probably nothing less than she's earned; the only thing to do is to own up and bear the cost and _feel_ everything because she knows she deserves it.

On the other hand—never to have a nightmare again. To lie down and sleep without fear. Never to jump and cringe like a child at the way shadows creep along the wall, to fret over how cracked and flawed she's become and how easy it could be for something dark to slip in through the cracks and never leave.

"I'm just thinking," she argues with no one in particular, turning the page. "There's nothing wrong with thinking."

"I should shake you," Wynne snaps tightly, and Therrin startles hard to find the older woman standing above her imperiously, cross-armed and scowling. "Do you have any idea how many people were worried sick when you disappeared? We thought you'd been kidnapped, or assassinated. Whatever possessed you to run off alone without a word?"

Therrin blinks in still-tired confusion. That's two questions, and she doesn't know which to answer first, but she does know that 'whatever possessed you' is—in the Circle Tower—a poor turn of phrase. "Wynne," she says instead of answering. "And… Oghren." _And Greagoir and Cullen_, she finishes silently, heart sinking. Sitting in front of the disapproving group, she feels suddenly small. "I wasn't alone," she protests. "I had Dog."

Dog is busy snuffling interestedly behind the bookshelves, but at the mention of his name he sneezes and bounds over, nosing at Oghren's pocket because the dwarf had gotten into the habit of slipping him hunks of meat from time to time and Dog never forgets someone who's generous with food.

Therrin wonders why she feels like a brand-new apprentice in trouble again. "What are you doing here?" she asks. _Have you come to say I told you so about Alistair? Because you _did_ tell me so._

"Oh, you know," Oghren begins, too-casual as he shrugs like a bristle-brush in armor. "Just thought we'd come see the sights, spit off the top of the Tower, find out if you'd, you know, _died on the road_ or something."

Right. Because Archdemon gone or not, there are still darkspawn out there, fleeing. But before she can apologize Cullen frowns and crouches at her side, looking at her stack of books one by one. He doesn't say anything for a moment and the absurd, bubbling urge to apologize for kissing him (sort of) gets bitten back when she realizes that he wouldn't appreciate her doing it in front of anyone else. Including Greagoir. Especially Greagoir.

Cullen blinks a lot when he's perplexed. She never noticed, before. "Who is it you suspect?" he asks at last, a book about identifying candidates for Tranquility in his hands and a crease between his eyebrows.

"Suspect?" she repeats, not understanding. Does everyone have to stand practically on top of her like that? Claustrophobia's starting to set in.

"Who do you think needs made Tranquil?" Cullen clarifies slowly, frown deepening in confusion at the little noise Wynne makes in her throat.

She doesn't want to tell Cullen. The flight of morbid fancy seems even more shameful than before, all of a sudden. "I'm just tired, Wynne," she says instead, glancing up guiltily to meet the older woman's look of horror. "It's nothing." Wynne doesn't look convinced. She probably thinks this is only about Alistair, Therrin realizes, and while that doesn't exactly help…

Her throat tightens. _Really_ doesn't exactly help.

How many times in the past few months has Oghren saved her? He does it again, too much in his expression to read as he nudges her knee with a boot. "Off your ass, boss. Let's take a walk." At Therrin's hesitation he snorts. "What? You think _you're_ the only one in the world trailin' after someone with a destiny and the first to ever get left behind?"

Shame floods her belly, rising hot in her cheeks because she had been feeling rather that way, yes, and has little of Oghren's ability to shrug it off and keep fighting. But Oghren is standing in front of her with his hand outstretched like a lifeline, and before she can think herself to death she takes it.

-oOo-

Cullen still doesn't understand, and when Wynne begins re-shelving the books on Tranquils with a bit more force than strictly necessary, he asks, and gets an irritated look for his trouble. But he's not the subject of Wynne's ire and after a moment she sighs and explains. The bones of it, anyway. Cullen has the impression that there's more to it than 'killing the Archdemon was difficult.' Once Wynne finishes and hasn't mentioned anything about—well, _him_—Cullen tries not to wince, and asks.

"The templar?" Wynne repeats in confusion, eyes going sharp as understanding dawns. "Yes." Not that it's any of his business, Cullen thinks uncomfortably. "King Alistair of Ferelden," Wynne says carefully, not looking at him. "You must have seen them here, I suppose."

Cullen nods, waiting.

Something softens in Wynne's expression, tracked like a riverbed as she traces fingers over the book in her arms. "What affection was between them didn't survive the coronation," she says. "I had begun to believe that it might. I had told her as much."

When she glances at the door her mouth twists in displeasure. "I can't imagine they'd walk this long. If he's actually got her spitting off the side of the Tower, I swear…" Cullen follows when Wynne leaves, muttering to herself about youth and stupidity.

-oOo-

They aren't spitting off the side of the tower. Instead, Therrin is drunk. Cullen registers this with surprise, avoiding the ruined furniture as he follows Wynne past broken glass and scorched heaps of things he doesn't care to think about. Beneath the scents of smoke and corruption the room smells of something sharp and fermented, and when Therrin catches sight of him the grin she shoots him is far too bright. "Cullen! We were just talking about you," she burbles cheerily, unaware of the way it stops him in his tracks.

Wynne is not pleased. "This is talking, is it?"

"No," Therrin replies, smiling and unconcerned, leaning her elbows on the little table. "Oghren's teaching me a drinking game."

Wynne turns her frown on Oghren, who is not in the least perturbed. "Trying," he grumbles. "It'd help if you could keep the rules straight for two seconds at a time. Thought Grey Wardens were supposed to be bright and capable."

"I'm not very good at Grey Wardening," Therrin admits frankly before falling into a vague frown, hand curling around her cup. "Wardening? Grey Warding. Warden-ening. That doesn't sound right at all."

"How much have you had?" Wynne asks, mouth pursing as Therrin rests her forehead on the table.

Oghren laughs, red beard swaying. "About one cup."

Drunk. _Therrin_ _Amell_, drunk. Cullen is at once bizarrely fascinated and utterly horrified. Apprentices aren't allowed to drink at the Tower. They're dangerous enough as it is, in full control of their faculties. With inhibitions stripped away and mental resistance at low ebb, they become even more a danger to themselves and all around them. _She's not an apprentice anymore_, he reminds himself, though in some space in his mind she'll always be that girl, un-Harrowed and smiling.

But she perks up, and slides her cup over to Oghren. He fills it again, and she grins before she down the lot of it in four long swallows, her throat working up and down as she drinks. Not that he watches. "Is it my turn?" she asks as soon as she's done, frowning when Wynne plucks the cup out of her hands. "Hey, that's mine, go get your own."

"Couldn't hurt, Wynne," Oghren smirks.

Cullen would really like to know what it is that allows the dwarf to be completely impervious to Wynne's withering look of disdain because it makes even him uncomfortable and he's not the target. "I'm surprised at both of you," Wynne says finally, disappointed.

"No more surprises," Therrin protests, suddenly forlorn. "I don't like surprises." Wynne's face softens for only a moment before Therrin's mood swings abruptly back to cheery again and she smiles up at Cullen. "Well, except when you did the… the thing. In the circle. And said all that about…" She waves a hand, vaguely, flushing pink and ignoring the templar's look of horror and his unspoken plea _please for the love of the Maker shut up._

Oghren snickers at Cullen. "Did the _thing_?"

"Pervert," Therrin grumbles, cheeks reddening as she glares without heat at the dwarf. "You're such a pervert. Cullen wouldn't _ever_. Which is why—you know—surprise."

_Cullen wouldn't ever_. He doesn't quite know how to take that, but he knows he certainly should be more indifferent than indignant, and he wishes more than anything she would just stop talking. Or at least, drink enough to forget it ever happened.

Wynne looks as though it's all she can do not to roll her eyes, mouth beginning to twitch. "Not that big of a surprise, surely."

Cullen had been laboring under the mistaken impression that Wynne was on his side, sort of, because she's known him since he was sixteen and awkward and she'd always seemed reasonable. Or at least kind, for a mage. He should have known mages would stick together.

"_Big_ surprise," Therrin insists, knocking into a bottle with her elbow and then knocking it over entirely when she tries to stop it from falling. "Like… um." She gestures futilely, grasping for words and coming up unsatisfyingly short, eyeing Cullen. "Like if I said I wanted to have a half-dozen of your redheaded babies," she manages, snapping her fingers immediately at his flabbergasted expression. "Like _that_, that look right there, that was my face."

Oghren is chortling. Cullen decides he hates him. And Therrin. And Greagoir especially, for saying 'carry on' instead of 'I'll handle this.' Mostly he just hates Therrin. He has a brief mental image of throwing her off the top of the Tower and immediately feels guilty.

Wynne doesn't find Cullen's embarrassment funny in the slightest, giving Therrin a severe glare. "Casual cruelty is entirely unbecoming and you _know better_."

"Sorry." Therrin looks genuinely remorseful in the moment before she slumps again to rest her forehead on the table. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"Not supposed to have kids anyway," Oghren reminds her, scratching his chin sagely. "Mage, and all."

"I know."

No one says anything, then, and as the silence stretches out and becomes awkward Wynne sighs. "This isn't productive."

There isn't a reply because Therrin's fallen asleep again, face-down on the table in a slack puddle of limbs. Wynne casts her eyes to the ceiling, patience rapidly thinning. "No more, Oghren," she chides, sounding tired. "This isn't going to help. Maker knows we have enough problems as it is." She glances at Cullen, mouth set in mild irritation. "There's nothing to do but get her to bed, I suppose. We can't leave her here."

Cullen wants to protest, because this isn't funny and he's beginning to wonder if he might be personally, _specifically_ cursed, but instead he steps over pieces of a broken vase and shakes her shoulder. "Wake up," he orders. She doesn't, and when he shakes her again she only makes a thick, nauseated sound. "You can't stay here."

She stirs a little, and when she blinks up at him, she doesn't look cowed at all. "This is my room."

Cullen takes in the sight of the smashed armoire and the bloody mattress, and says, "This isn't anyone's room now."

"I never even got to sleep in it," she protests as her eyes drift closed again. No other response is forthcoming even when he shakes her again, and with Wynne waiting impatiently Cullen decides arguing over it any more is pointless and takes matters into his own hands.

Of course, that's when Greagoir finds them, with the room reeking of Oghren's alcohol and Therrin limp as a sack of grain in Cullen's arms. "What's this, then?" the Knight Commander asks warily, his frown growing deeper at the sight of Cullen holding Therrin like an oversized ragdoll.

Cullen tries dimly to think of a good explanation, but Oghren speaks first and doesn't help. "Girl can't hold her liquor," the dwarf answers, unperturbed by Greagoir's scowl.

"It's not what it looks like," Cullen offers, and then the bad situation gets worse when Therrin nuzzles sleepily against his armor and mumbles a name.

Not _his_ name, which shouldn't hurt but does.

Greagoir merely looks tired and turns to the older of the mages. "Wynne, I need a word with you. It seems we have a situation."

As Wynne and Greagoir retreat in the direction of his office, Cullen walks the other way with Therrin, slow with weariness and burdens both material and mental. "Not even a day," he complains to the woman in his arms. "Not even a full _day_ and you're already getting me into trouble again."

"Sorry," she murmurs against his chest, mournful and thick with drink.

"I'm not watching you again," he grumbles, settling her ungently onto the first bed he comes across and struggling to slam the iron barrier between mage and templar back into place. "Don't—just try not to do anything… anything wrong. I _will_ kill you, if I have to."

He's aware that the threat comes out lukewarm, but she peers back up at him—awake, but just barely—and mumbles grimly, "Good."

And sleeps, oblivious to Cullen's disbelieving stare.


	5. The Mortal Fulcrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Callalili's written a companion piece/prequel to What We Are/What We Become from Dog's POV- it's titled "Ever", and it's absolutely perfect, so go read it! XD And as always, thank you for reading.

"There you are." Wynne smiles grimly the next morning at the sight of him, making Cullen's gut twist because he's had quite enough of people looking for him, thank you, and doesn't like the way Wynne's eyeing him.

Sure enough, the next words out of her mouth are, "Come carry these, would you?"

'These' turn out to be heavy buckets of ice water, and Wynne gladly hands them over. Cullen wonders when he became a glorified pack animal, because all he seems to be doing these days is carrying things. He hardly notices the small, terrified boy until Wynne seizes him by the hand and begins blazing a trail down to the sleeping quarters, determination writ large in every step and angle of her posture.

The child, the ice water, the grim resolve… Cullen isn't stupid but if there's a point to this, he's not getting it. When he says as much to Wynne she smiles, grim again and a little sharp. "The point is getting that fool of a girl out of bed and useful again. There's too much to be done and I'm too old to do it alone."

Which clarifies things by exactly… nothing.

"It's a matter of responsibility," Wynne says finally at his puzzled expression. "Given the choice, Therrin will moan and wallow in pessimism. Remove choice, and she'll rise to the occasion." Cullen tries to keep the water from sloshing, trying to line up his memories of Therrin the apprentice and Therrin the Warden and finding they hardly fit. "Mind, rising to the occasion seems to come only _after_ she shouts at the sky and grinds her teeth and tears her hair out. But this has gone on long enough." Wynne pulls the child along after her, hitching up the skirt of her robes slightly with one hand at the stairs.

Cullen casts a glance sidelong at Wynne, skeptical. "You think responsibility is going to get her out of bed."

Wynne smiles tightly, a woman on a mission. "Yes. And if responsibility won't, the ice water will."

-oOo-

Therrin Amell is dying, and not in the general sense of the taint coming to collect in thirty years or so sort of way. More the 'there is a dwarf in my head with a hammer and he's trying to beat his way out through my skull and merciful Maker kill me now' sort of way. She has been picked up and pummeled by an ogre, she has been reduced to a trembling heap by corrupted templars, she has been kicked by a dragon, but that was all outside pain and _this_ pain is flowering out from inside her head. Her tongue feels like she's been licking the inside of an oven and she can count all her bones because each one of them hurts.

She hears the door open (though it has never, ever seemed so damned loud before) and footsteps (though they blur together), and she closes her eyes tightly against the light because light hurts. She's vaguely aware that there are people at her bedside, but she's also vaguely aware that the world is turning because she's convinced she can feel it spinning and holding onto the bed very tightly is the only way to be sure she won't fall off.

People are rather of minimal concern when there is so much movement going on.

Until Wynne says, "Time to be up, Therrin."

_I _can't_ get up, because the world is spinning and my stomach is threatening to crawl out my throat and punch me_, Therrin tries to say, but it comes like "Nnnnggdth."

"There are things to do, and the morning is wasting."

Therrin grumbles and slinks back completely under the blankets because there is _nothing to do_ because the Tower is empty.

"I need a Senior Enchanter. If we're going to rebuild the Circle, we're not going to do it with you wallowing in self-pity and lying abed all day."

Therrin would blink but her eyes are screwed tightly shut and it makes blinking redundant. "What?" she manages, feeling very, very stupid. She can't be Senior Enchanter. It's ridiculous. There's no Circle anymore.

"That would be 'What, _First Enchanter_,'" Wynne corrects primly. "We've work to do. Get up."

Oghren had taken great delight in teaching her a number of dwarven curses, including a particularly creative one involving a hand-shovel, a deck of cards, and a dead nug. Therrin grumbles it sourly in the general direction of Wynne's voice.

There is one blissful moment where the room goes quiet again and she thinks Wynne might have gone away, and then ice water pours over her in a freezing cascade, twice, getting in her mouth and nose and turning the warm cocoon of blankets into a frigid puddle. Therrin gasps in shock and flounders out of bed, making an awkward leap to her feet as her eyes snap open and she finds Cullen there, empty-handed and staring at her and just as shocked as she is, and only then does she remember she's naked.

Memories from last night trickle back slowly: of waking up still drunk and thinking it was a good time for a bath, of finding soap and stripping off, of the bones in the bathtub that had made the idea rather less appealing. Therrin seizes the cold, dripping blanket from the floor and wraps it around herself. "_Wynne!"_

Wynne only smiles, holding the hand of a child Therrin doesn't know. "We could have done this the easy way."

When she glances again to Cullen his face has gone scarlet and he's studying the ceiling with near-religious fervor. The initial flash of mortification turns to anger which turns to mortification again almost at once. Bad enough to be naked. Naked and scolded at the same time are conditions that shouldn't come as a pair. Her teeth start to chatter and she wishes for her robes back, even disgusting as they are.

"I _have_ taken on the responsibilities of First Enchanter," Wynne continues in the silence. "And the Circle _is _going to be rebuilt. You're the closest thing I have to help and I need you as my second." When Therrin only shivers, disbelieving, Wynne goes on, "This is Stephen. He was brought in yesterday. As his new mentor you are responsible for his education and well-being."

Therrin stares at him, her wet hair dripping ice water down her arms. "I can't have an apprentice. I was only here a few hours after my Harrowing. I'm not even—"

"You're here. That's the important thing at the moment," Wynne says.

Because so few of the other mages had survived, Therrin remembers, and her stomach seems to drop. There isn't anyone else left to do it.

"I want to see you on your feet," Wynne goes on, and before Therrin can protest that she _is_ on her feet she continues, "and fed, and walking around like a human being doing something useful."

"Like what?"

Wynne spreads her hands. "Pick whatever task you like. There isn't any shortage of work to do."

I just killed an Archdemon, Therrin thinks pitifully, and when she looks to Cullen he is still looking away from her, obviously flustered. "You're evil," she grumbles at Wynne.

Wynne isn't perturbed in the slightest. "I would suggest the library, if you're in need of direction. We need it ordered and inventoried as soon as possible so we can send away for replacements."

"_Fine_," Therrin says automatically, vaguely registering that two days ago the whole chain of command thing would have gone the other direction and she'd be the one giving orders. Just now, she can't bring herself to care.

Wynne's mouth twitches and amusement snaps in her eyes. "You can breathe now, Cullen. Come on, let's let them get acquainted. You too, Dog, I've got a job for you."

Cullen turns and nearly runs out of the room, and Therrin is sure she hears Wynne laughing all the way down the hall as Dog clicks his way out obediently, stump of a tail wagging.

Stephen is still gazing at her wordlessly, his eyes large and serious under his mop of brandy-gold curls.

"Hi," she manages at last. "I'm Therrin. Your mentor, I… guess. You're Stephen?" He nods, curls bobbing. His eyebrows draw together and he looks worried. "You came here yesterday?" Therrin asks, wondering if he can talk. He nods again. His clothes are very shabby and he looks like he hasn't eaten in a week.

"What did you do? I mean," she amends, wondering what in the world she's supposed to do with a child, "Why were you brought in?" He looks at her blankly. "How did they know you were a mage?"

Stephen shifts from one foot to the other. "I fell," he says finally. "In the river." When he glances up and Therrin nods in what she hopes looks like encouragement, he continues, "I couldn't… there was water and I couldn't swim… I made ice." He looks perplexed, little brow furrowing. "I dunno how. But it floated me. And the woman saw and screamed at me and brought me to the man with the boat and…" He swallows hard, looking hopeful and pained like a dog hoping for a pat but expecting a kick. "The lady… the First Ench… Enchanter said this was home, now."

Therrin nods, unsure of what to say.

"Oh," Stephen says, relaxing and suddenly looking terribly hopeful. "Are you going to be my mother, then?"

Therrin's heart gives a lurch as she blinks down at the little boy, stunned wordless, and she wonders dully if anyone would mind too much if she were to drown herself in a bucket.

-oOo-

Cullen finds her that evening in the library. It seems a small miracle: Therrin is working, absorbed and industrious, fingers tripping quickly over the spines of books and stopping now and again to make a note on her ready piece of vellum.

It's so familiar that it almost aches. He could almost believe for a moment that the Grey Warden had never come, that she'd never left, that they weren't among the few survivors of the horrible fight that turned the Tower into a tomb. That the time had passed with her here, and everything is as it should have been.

Except she's cataloging the books lost in the fires, sitting at a table they'd had to drag the corpses off of, using vellum bought by a man now-dead.

But when she hears him approach her eyes flick up and the small, private smile she gives feels just the same as ever, and it shouldn't be comforting but it is. She holds a finger to her lips in an unspoken order for quiet.

It feels strange. _He_ feels strange. Lighter than he was yesterday, almost… young. "I don't think the archivist is going to kick us out for talking," he says, and is quiet anyway.

Therrin points out the little boy sleeping curled up on Dog nearby, lashes fanned out over his cheeks in repose. "He's napping," she says, so softly he leans closer to hear. "He's been sleeping for hours. I don't know what happened to him, before, but I don't think he really had anyone to take care of him."

"Ah." Cullen nods, and says nothing else, and takes up the familiar post five feet away.

She casts him a puzzled glance, and shakes her head, and when nothing else is forthcoming, she works. For a while, anyway. "Are we even, now?" she ventures finally, not looking at him. "Because now you've seen _me_ all embarrassed and… I thought maybe…"

She's twisting the quill in her fingers and it occurs to him that she's nervous, and for some reason it makes him faintly pleased because how many times had he been the nervous one, stuttering and tripping over words? "Even?"

Therrin looks up and nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

Cullen pretends to consider it, still feeling oddly unruly, vaguely rebellious. "No," he says finally. "Not even a little." She drops her gaze and looks as though she's trying not to smile but smiles anyway. That smile might be the reason he says when she turns back to her work, "I didn't know your freckles stopped at the neck."

She flushes an abrupt and spectacular shade of pink, so bright her cheeks seem to glow. She laughs in surprise and it's the first laugh he's heard since the Tower fell. And so yes, admittedly, this is stupid and undignified, but it's also been ages since he had anything remotely worth smiling about, and so feels a little bit smug.

Until her eyes flick up at him with an unexpected surge of too-familiar mischief and less-familiar heat and she says with equal smugness, "They don't."

It feels hot, all of a sudden. Was it always so hot in the library? He feels as though he's forgotten how to breathe again and she's flushing somehow even redder, shaking her head in embarrassed exasperation at the stupidityof it all. Cullen tries very hard to shake the image of her naked that leaps into his mind unbidden, enough to make his mouth go dry.

The thought skates at the edge of his mind that this is all really, really inappropriate and if Greagoir could hear... but before it goes so much as a glance further Stephen cries out in his sleep in fear. The mood dies abruptly, and Therrin is out of her chair and on her feet in an instant, crouching beside Dog and the boy and looking shocked when Stephen wakes just enough to throw skinny arms around her neck and sob, clinging to her for dear life and babbling brokenly about the horrors of his dreams.

Therrin freezes, but only for a moment. After that she murmurs hushes Cullen can barely hear, drawing Stephen into her lap and holding him safe. Dog rests his massive head on her knee with a sigh and the three of them seem to curl around each other into a protective, private little circle Cullen isn't a part of, and after a moment he retreats as unobtrusively as he can, leaving them in the darkening library in silence.


	6. The Templar's Warhound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Rated O for Oghren. Lock up your ale and daughters.

With so few left at the Tower, certain barriers are set aside, at least temporarily. It's a matter of practicality, mostly, and in any case there aren't more than a dozen people all together, sitting at the long table having breakfast.

Oghren is _bored_.

He'd been drunk when Wynne dragged him out of Denerim by the ear, babbling something about Therrin and trouble and he'd thought at the time there would be battle involved, a little bloodshed, a little bandit-killing. _Something_.

So far, no dice.

In the absence of darkspawn to slaughter, Oghren badgers the templars.

To be fair, they pissed him off first, talking among themselves about the siege at Denerim, about how Therrin had called on them, there at the end, about her like she was a particularly nice warhound they had trained to be at their beck and call and not, you know, a _person_.

Tin-canned asswipes.

When the templar next to him isn't looking, Oghren steals his biscuit and slips it under the table to Dog.

On his other side Therrin is working, plate shoved aside in favor of ink and paper, quill scratching away as she frowns in concentration.

Good thing he doesn't have a hangover. Otherwise that'd be really annoying.

But he _is_ getting a headache at that stupid kid going on about the Archdemon and the final battle and his own heroic role in everything, and Oghren feels punchy, but if he drinks this early Wynne's just going to bitch at him and steal his liquor again.

Damn woman.

"So you were there. With the Archdemon," Oghren begins gruffly, and the young templar says, "Yes."

Oghren scratches his chin, wrinkling his nose. "Because a _mage_ told you all to go fight an _Archdemon_."

The templar seems a little confused. Oghren thinks it makes him look like a cow. But at the templar's nod, Oghren grins. "How d'you know she didn't just really want all you bastards to die?"

The templar's expression is pretty satisfying.

"Please don't antagonize the templars on my behalf," Therrin says, still writing. "I've got problems enough, thank you."

Because, as she'd told him, the first rule of life at the Circle is: do not piss off the templars. But Oghren isn't a mage and isn't impressed by all the shiny armor and skirts, and figures if Therrin can kick an Archdemon in the shin, she can handle a few pissed-off little jerks with lots of bark and no bite. And if he's lucky, he'll be there when she does.

He'll keep his axe ready, just in case.

This could be fun.

"So how d'you _join_ the templars, anyway?" He leans back in his chair, tugging at his beard and trying not to snicker. "I'm already here and don't feel like moving, might as well sign me up."

Wynne's lips purse and her forehead creases. "Oghren."

Oghren grins. "Just asking. What? There a _height requirement?_ I'll stand on a damn box, beat 'em over the head with a stick all day, it'll be great. Look, I already know how to be a templar." He nudges Therrin with an elbow and she glances up, eyebrows raised in question.

"Don't be evil."

She nods. "Okay."

Oghren snickers. "See? Done. Where's my pretty skirt?"

And if the Knight Commander was in here, Oghren wouldn't get away with this and he knows it, but since none of these boys has seen the smart side of thirty, none of them has the balls to tell him to shut up.

Which is kinda fun on its own.

"So tell me, kid," he begins, looking at the one who'd been yapping about the Archdemon. "Are mages really as… uh… _easy_… as everyone says? Not a bad little setup, you know, keep 'em locked in the tower like a harem, always around when you're ready."

Therrin glares at him sidelong at the same time Wynne tries to kick him under the table but he's sitting crosslegged in the chair and she misses.

There's some nervous half-laughter from the templar boys, who look to one another uncertainly as though drawing invisible straws on who's going to answer.

Therrin does it for them. "It's not _true_," she says grimly, scowling down at the paper. "And it's not like that."

There's another nervous huff from the end of the table, the yellow-haired templar shaking his head like he's incredulous Oghren doesn't already know. "They're _mages_. They're not…"

Oghren finishes for him, folding his arms across his chest. "People."

Silence.

_Long_ silence.

Not people like dwarves aren't people, he grumbles to himself. Like mages aren't people and elves aren't people and anyone who's not wearing the damn uniform isn't people.

Yappy little jerk-off.

And it's a load of shit and Oghren knows it, because hips are hips and mage-hips sway just as pretty as any other kind. "Stuck with the mages, then, aren't you? Which means stuck with Wynne, I guess," he muses in Therrin's general direction. "Shame, considerin' your thing for redheads."

And there, right there, that redheaded one who'd been picking at his plate, his head jerks up in surprise and he does a great little double-take at Oghren's head of fiery hair before turning his attention back to his breakfast and spearing a piece of potato, hard.

Well, _hello_.

_Not people, my hairy ass. _

And while normally teasing Therrin is fun, because she's practically a babe in arms when it comes to the ways of the world—honestly, the kid didn't even have any idea how to haggle, she'd been ripped off by half the shopkeepers in Orzammar—this is different. She's already kinda blushing. It's never been _that_ easy. But she grumbles, "I don't have a thing for redheads."

"Oh no?" He leers and leans back in his chair, dragging the words out long: "Leliana, Amell-amell?"

And he doesn't know _exactly_ what that means to the kid because he'd been half-asleep at the time, but it was something Leliana had said about the sound a river makes at night and it makes Therrin's cheeks get pinker.

Heh.

"Nothing happened," she insists, writing harder.

"Now, you haven't met her," Oghren begins expansively with a grin at the nearest templar—who's already replaced his biscuit, without a word—"but you'd like Leliana. _Everyone_ likes Leliana. Isn't that right, kid?"

"We were _friends_."

"Didn't say you weren't." The templar beside him laughs down the table at the redhead and Oghren swipes his biscuit again, tucking it under the table in a flash for Dog. The redheaded templar sees the theft, but says nothing. _Good boy. _Oghren smirks. "But you gotta admit she was real… _friendly_. With you, anyway."

Therrin's mouth is twitching. "She's Orlesian. They're friendly people, that's all."

Oghren sniggers, wiping Dog drool off his hands onto the templar's napkin. "Yeah. _Sure_. All the time you two spent playing with each other's hair and giggling in that tent and you're tellin' me you never let her lick the icing off your cupcake?"

If Therrin blushes any redder she's going to catch on fire. "_What?_"

The redheaded templar is choking, coughing up something he'd apparently been drinking. And _he's_ blushing worse than Therrin.

Huh.

"Oghren," Wynne sighs, but he ignores her because this is more fun.

"You know," Oghren snickers. "Tongue-wrestled the hairy nug. Went face-down in the fountain."

He's getting close to the edge of Therrin's tolerance, apparently, because she's biting her lip hard and trying not to laugh with only minimal success before she clears her throat with an effort. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He chortles. "Right."

"Nothing _happened_."

"Uh-huh. You ever find out what was under those Chantry robes?"

And _that_ whips every templar head around, but Oghren ignores them because watching Therrin try to be good when she'd rather grin and make a baby-chick attempt at being bawdy is much more entertaining. It'd be even _more_ fun if Alistair was here because he'd be sputtering and laughing and playing along and Therrin'd be a giggling puddle of happy woman and—well. Oghren'd end up playing fetch with Dog that night, because the fearless leader would be busy.

Ah, well.

Poor bastard.

But Therrin hasn't answered. She only turns back to her paper, writing with even more pressure, looking as though she's about to laugh. Any second now…

"Fine. Don't tell me. I'll just imagine it. Oh, not _you_," he says at her look. "Leliana. Now there's a real woman."

Therrin's eyebrow rises a fraction. "I'm not real?"

"Eh." Oghren takes a swig of water and wishes it was something stronger. "Mages smell funny."

She blinks. "We do?"

"Mmm," he grumbles. "Like lake water and fear." _And templars pissing themselves_, he thinks, but he doesn't say that.

She gets it anyway. "Other people's fear," she mutters with grim satisfaction, so low only he can hear.

_Good girl._

"So where d'you keep the lady templars?" he asks, stretching out and deciding to give the kid a break. "Ain't seen a one yet. Shame to have all those pretty skirts when none of you sods really have the legs for 'em."

Silence.

The templar beside him looks baffled at the loss of his second biscuit and Oghren tries not to grin.

By the _Stone_, the kid has weird taste in company. He scratches his chin thoughtfully. "Let me guess: there are no lady templars."

More silence, except for the determined scratching of Therrin's quill.

"You poor sods must be _frustrated_."

"Oghren," Wynne chides sharply. "Please."

"I'm just making _conversation_," he retorts. "Tryin' to be friendly." He cocks an eyebrow at the templars. "'Course, with those great big swords, you might think you boys were tryin' to compensate for something."

Therrin is blushing again, reddish around her neck, but she also has a wicked grin trying to tug at one corner of her mouth and it makes him snicker.

"They're to kill apostate mages," the yellow-haired templar manages finally, irritated.

"Look like they're for show, to me," Oghren says blandly. "To show off and polish. Of course, that's a _big _sword," he grins at the redheaded mage, who's darting glances at Therrin when he thinks she isn't looking. "Probably takes a long time to polish, right?"

Therrin's quill snaps in her hand.

"Dammit, Oghren," she mumbles, trying hard not to laugh and reaching for a new quill. "I'm trying to concentrate."

He leers. "Are you sayin' you're _distracted_?"

Wynne kicks him, finally connecting with his ankle, and Oghren bites back a curse.

_Fine_.

"What're you working on, anyway?" he grumbles, leaning over Therrin's parchment.

"A formal request." Her mouth sets in determination. "For Dagna."

The name rings a bell, vaguely, an image of a redheaded girl in Orzammar and _damn_ did the kid have a soft heart, sometimes. "Really?"

"I promised her I'd try," Therrin answers, waving a hand over the ink to dry it. "I keep my promises."

Wynne's forehead wrinkles. "I thought Greagoir already denied your request."

"He did. Once." She scowls at the parchment as if it were the Knight Commander. "But just because something's never happened before doesn't mean it's not a good idea. He'll come around."

_Or else_, she leaves unspoken, but Oghren knows that particular look and wants to chuckle. There might be some head-bashing after all. She puts her untouched plate on the floor for Dog, who gobbles it all down in the space of a breath as Therrin folds the parchment, precisely lined up at the corners. "Wish me luck." She stands up, tossing Oghren a small, tight grin.

"You want backup?" he offers.

"Best to take it one-on-one, I think. You sticking around?"

Oghren tugs at his beard. "For a while."

Therrin's mouth twitches again. "Be nice to the templars."

But he's lived with her day-and-night for months and followed her into battle and so knows that gleam in her eyes means _don't be nice to the templars_, and orders are orders and Oghren is nothing if not loyal.

"Yes _ma'am_, Fearless Leader," he smirks, and nudges the templar beside him, brushing off the human's recoil but _damn _do these bastards have no manners at all. "You know how it is. Fearless Leader says jump, you jump. Fearless Leader says fight, you fight. Fearless Leader says take your pants off and dance around a little, you do it, and you don't complain about it being cold and shriveling everything up."

"For goodness' sake, Oghren," Wynne sighs.

Oghren grins at Therrin. "Go get 'im, kid."

She does, shoulders squared as she stalks off with Dog at her heels like she's marching off to war. And maybe, he thinks, she is.

Which leaves _orders_, and the redheaded templar is watching Therrin walk away.

Heh.

"So," he says, standing and picking up his plate because Wynne's going to get tired kicking him and she's too old for this. He settles down in another seat, across from the redheaded one because he looks like the easiest target. "Therrin ever tell you about the first time we went to a brothel?"


	7. The Grey Victory

Greagoir remembers every mage-child who has walked through the Tower doors: the ones who survived to adulthood and the ones who didn't, the ones who became mages and those whose Harrowings went badly and those who became Tranquil.

Of all the children who've lived at the Tower under Greagoir's tenure as Knight Commander, Greagoir wouldn't have expected Therrin Amell to be the one sitting across from him at his desk, punctuating her arguments with a pointed finger at her request papers. She'd never been an instigator, bright enough but otherwise unremarkable, trailing behind Jowan like a puppy from the day she'd arrived.

She argues like a templar, now. Why she's so adamant about the dwarf, he isn't sure, except that her vehemence is punctuated by detail after detail of why each point of her argument is utterly unimpeachable. And then at last, the high-handed trump card, delivered with grim resistance: "She just wants to study. Technically, this request is just a formality. Dagna isn't a mage and isn't under templar control."

Greagoir considers this a moment, irritated but too tired to remind her that if he'd had his way—if not for the grace of Irving and the intervention of the Grey Wardens—she'd be sitting here Tranquil. Or dead, more likely, because she'd have been here when the Tower was attacked. "And what about you?"

A frown flickers across her forehead, quickly, wary at the change of subject. "What about me?"

"You've returned to the Tower; do you consider yourself under templar control?"

She hadn't been expecting that, apparently. She blinks and sits back in her chair, and he can tell she's scrambling for an answer. "This isn't about me. This is about Dagna," she manages finally, trying to match Greagoir's sternness.

The evasion is too awkward to be anything like successful. Greagoir resists the urge to rub his temples to ease the headache blooming behind his eyes. _A year_, Wynne had said when he'd asked her again to be First Enchanter because there simply wasn't anyone else and he didn't trust some Orlesian to come in and try to take over. _I'll do it for a year, at most, and then I'm giving it over to Therrin. I'm not going to spend my last years fussing over paperwork in some stuffy office and arguing with _you_all day._

Wynne has apparently chosen not to share the news with her protégé.

But though Wynne might not be cut out for command—though Greagoir doubts this, even over Wynne's protests—she has a measure of Irving's wisdom, at least. And while Therrin might have the ability to rally others behind her she has none of Irving's patience or insight, and he doubts gravely that such intangibles can be earned within the rough space of a year.

Irving may have been the thorn in Greagoir's side, but at least they had understood one another.

However.

If Therrin has none of Irving's wisdom she has his crusader's tenacity in spades; already gearing up for another argument and Greagoir is _tired_. "An answer," he says gruffly to cut her off before she can begin again. "One for another. As a Grey Warden, and a mage."

There's the choice here, if she's capable of seeing it hanging just-barely-unspoken in the air between them: submit, and your request is granted. Don't, and you'll be starting more trouble than just a denial of the dwarf's ridiculous dream.

She narrows her eyes at him, briefly, wary that this is a verbal snare she won't be able to pry herself out of. "If the Grey Wardens call for me, I'll be bound to answer," she says at last, cautious. "But I _am_ a mage, and I have chosen. My place is here at the Tower."

_My place_, he repeats to himself, mulling it over and wondering if she knows quite what she's saying. My place, templars and all. Greagoir considers it. The perfect balance between mages' freedom and templars' duty is near-impossible to achieve and even more difficult to maintain. Too lax the templars' grip and mages run away with their own powers, a danger to everyone. Too tight, Irving had argued, and the rebellious ones slip through templar fingers all the faster, the only mages left behind crushed nearly unrecognizable.

But there is promise, at least, in the set of Therrin's jaw and the displeasure in her posture. She is sitting in front of him, letting him know that she is patently and publicly unhappy about his decision instead of sneaking behind his back to get around it.

More Irving than Uldred, when it comes to it.

It isn't as though the dwarf is ever going to shock them all by turning out to be a blood mage, he supposes. In the larger scheme of things, the girl will likely be a historical oddity and nothing more.

Still. "I put full responsibility for the dwarf's actions on your shoulders," Greagoir says finally, grim and severe. "If she so much as bothers anyone to the point they become distracted from their duties—"

"She won't," Therrin says quickly. Greagoir sighs and levels a look at her, and Therrin has the grace to look faintly embarrassed at the interruption, folding her hands in her lap and waiting. The Tower was going to be overrun by children with no patience at all, and this child was going to lead them.

There should be a modicum of comfort in the idea that if she's going to make a wreck of the Circle in the years to come, he won't be around to see it.

There isn't.

"Any failure of hers will be a failure of yours," he says flatly, tapping fingers on his desk. But the dwarf can come, for all the good it does anyone.

Therrin's eyes flash with something like victory for a split second and she tries not to smile, inclining her head. "She won't fail. Thank you."

Of course she says this, now. No mage ever thinks it will be their apprentice who goes astray. No Knight Commander ever thinks it's going to be their watch under which Annulment will be called for. Failure finds them anyway, and it's never as easy to root out as you think.

And of course, by the time it's right in front of your face it's far too late.

But he doesn't say this, and in any case, he doesn't think she would listen. He waves a hand, tiredly, and tells her to get out of his office. Once she's gone he contemplates the swords hanging high on his wall—the weapons of Knight Commanders before him, each a link in an eternal, unbreakable chain—and wonders if his predecessors felt the weight of duty so heavily as he, as though his skin of armor has replaced humanity altogether and left behind only a cold shell of steel.

Perhaps it's something to do with the Tower itself, sapping templar lives over the span of decades. As a young mage-hunter, he'd lived for duty and danger, the rush of triumph and the grim satisfaction of an apostate slain.

But now…

Greagoir sighs and gives into the urge to rub his temples, trying not to think that he has felt old for more years than he ever expected to be alive.

-oOo-

It's all Therrin can do not to crow in triumph, and as it is she practically skips down the steps in celebration. Not that she didn't expect it to work—she had—she had just expected it to take much, much longer.

Dagna will be happy. And this makes Therrin happy, that she could make a promise and keep it, that the brilliant, bright-eyed girl will get the opportunity to be here where she wants to be.

Small miracles.

Her heart is only buoyed further by the sight of Stephen trotting her direction with his cheeks full of biscuit and a stick in his hand. He grins messily at the sight of her and Dog trails along behind him before they run off for a game of fetch, and Therrin watches them go, smiling. She's still smiling when the messenger finds her, come all the way from Denerim with mail and news and supplies, a brief confirmation of identity the only conversation he makes before pushing her pack and staff into her hands.

Stupid of her, to leave everything behind. But Therrin shakes the thought away as she pops into a workroom. It's all back now, and that's what matters. She tears into her pack, pushing aside the mundane vials of poultice and potion to get her fingers on the little personal things she'd missed: the enameled earrings Leliana had bought her, the perfectly smooth rock she'd found in the Deep Roads and had tucked away for good luck, a black feather she'd found the day of the Joining and used as a bookmark in every book she'd read since Ostagar.

She finds her favorite robes—which had felt so daringly cut, at first, but which had grown to seem downright stodgy next to what Morrigan wore—and grins at the sight of them, darting a glance around to make sure no one's there before changing on impulse. The feel of the enchanted cloth on her skin is blissfully familiar, comforting in a way she hadn't expected and more fortifying than the robes issued at the Tower.

The rose is gone.

She double and triple-checks to be sure, because she would never, never have lost it, but it isn't there. In its place is an undated letter written in Alistair's crooked slant:

_I hope Wynne tells you off for running away, because you deserve it. Half of Denerim was in an uproar. I thought for a while you'd been kidnapped, or that Morrigan had decided to eat your soul after all. _

_I'm told you've returned to the Tower, which I think just proves my earlier point as regards the subject of you being a tiny bit, oh I don't know, insane. _

_I  hope you know what you're doing. If you've ever a need, of anything, all you have to do is ask. Please, please be careful._

_And don't roll your eyes because this is just a letter and I won't see it._

And that's all. She lets the page fall to the tabletop, taking a shaky breath. It pulses hollow a moment under her breastbone—grief and regret, and an ocean of loss—but there comes the scrambling sound of mabari claws on stone and the smacking of a little boy's footsteps before they find her, breathless and happy, and she puts the feeling aside and tucks the letter away.

It's a day for victory.

But when she herds Dog and Stephen back to the common room in search of a wet napkin because there's jam in both their hair, Oghren isn't smiling. It's with a grimace that he grumbles out the latest news from the capital: the king is getting married before the month is out.


	8. The Unfathomed Depths

Cullen hears the news mid-morning, a tidbit of gossip tossed like an afterthought his direction by one of the cooks: _good morning, ser, and did you hear the new king is getting married already? _

_Yes, the news came in not long ago._

_Therrin? Haven't seen her._

When he looks, she isn't in any of the usual places. The library is utterly empty, her room is empty, the herbalism tables are cluttered but she isn't there.

He runs into Stephen, who is holding a basket of something for Wynne and looking like he would dearly rather be elsewhere, but Cullen doesn't want to get roped into Wynne's inevitable _oh there you are, come carry this_ or _oh good, you're here, can you climb that ladder and fetch such and such for me? _and so he passes them by without asking.

He prefers not to think about why, precisely, he's looking, nor about the quiet thread of worry that tugs in his chest, unsettled and sharp.

Finally he finds the dwarf, drinking and playing cards with himself on the floor, and asks. The dwarf cocks an eyebrow at him and grunts. "Why d'you wanna know?" he says finally, eyes narrowed at Cullen and elbows resting on his knees.

Cullen hesitates, taken aback. "I—I heard the… news."

The dwarf blinks at him, unimpressed. "And?"

"Um," he says. "I—"

"You got a _stuttering_ problem?"

He can't seem to finish a thought, much less a sentence, but before he can try again the dwarf frowns, giving Cullen a gauging look. "You're _that_ templar, aren't you?" Cullen blinks. The dwarf takes in Cullen's expression and gives a knowing laugh like stone scraping stone. "You poor sod."

It's all Cullen can do not to shout in frustration. Maker above, does _everyone_ know?

"She's in the Harem Chamber," the dwarf rumbles before Cullen can say anything else. "And if you've got any dipshit templar ideas about being an ass to the kid I'm gonna drag you by the short hairs back to Orzammar and drop you down a deep, dark hole."

"I don't," Cullen manages. "I just wanted… to see if she was all right." It sounds stupid to his own ears and he wants to sigh. And Harem Chamber?" Harrowing," he blurts. "I think you mean Harrowing Chamber." Though what would she be doing there?

"Like it better the other way," the dwarf harrumphs, frowning down at the cards. "You done here or are you gonna invite me to a tea party? Cause I'm not exactly in my prettiest frock, ya know."

"No," Cullen says, trying to sort out the jumbled images crowding his mind, of Therrin and the Harrowing and blood and a dwarf in a pretty frock. "No. I'm going to go."

"Good," the dwarf says, flipping over a card. "I've got money ridin' on this game."

Cullen leaves, and makes himself walk and not run. He thinks, at first, that the Harrowing Chamber is empty—how many times has he stood here, standing over a mage at the font and waiting for the worst?—but Dog is by the window, and Therrin…

His stomach lurches a little.

Therrin is sitting on the windowsill, her back turned to him and her legs dangling outside the Tower. And there's a reason the windows in the higher floors were soldered shut long ago: the mages used to jump, Greagoir had told him once, and even though the height of the fall killed most of them the odd one or two had survived. These days the only windows that open this high are in the Harrowing Chamber, because if it isn't aired out now and then it begins to reek of blood and magic.

One of Therrin's hands is scratching Dog's neck idly, and Dog doesn't seem too worried. His ears prick up at Cullen's approach and it draws Therrin out of her reverie, and when she sees him she offers a small, fleeting smile. "Hi, Cullen."

"Hello," he says, instead of what he wants to say which is _please for the love of the Maker get away from the window before you fall._

But she's already turned back around, resting her head against the side of the window frame and contemplating the sky. Gingerly—because he doesn't want to make any sudden moves, or startle her or do anything that might make her jump—he walks to the window, one eye on Therrin and the other on Dog. "That's… ah. That's a long way down."

_Lake Calenhad eats mages_. He'd heard it before, because it happened sometimes that mage-children never even made it to the Tower. Storms came up on the crossing, accidents happened. Boats are never the safest thing in the world. And before he'd been born, generations of mages had jumped to their deaths.

The lake is cold and turbulent and very far beneath them. Cullen doesn't know how any mage would survive the fall, or find dying in the lake preferable to living in the Tower.

"I wasn't looking down," Therrin says, unconcerned. "I just needed some air."

Foolish, Cullen thinks, just because she doesn't look doesn't mean it isn't there and doesn't do anything to negate the dangers. But the windowsill is wider than he remembers, almost as wide as a bench, and he thinks he's close enough to grab hold of her in case… his stomach clenches and he doesn't want to think about it.

"So you've heard about Alistair, I'd imagine," she says, brushing away hair the wind tugs into her eyes.

Cullen hesitates, unsure. "Yes." Therrin says nothing else, and after a moment he tries not to wince and asks, "Are you all right?"

She looks puzzled a moment. "Yes." She laughs a little, rueful and low, holding onto the window-bar. "This… well. It wasn't exactly unexpected."

He eases closer, sliding to half-sit on the sill. "It seems… fast."

Therrin sighs, a sound like drifting leaves. "Yes, it does."

Silence spreads out between them after that. She doesn't see him cringe as she leans over to look at the lake. "One of the benefits of living in a Tower your whole life," she muses idly, considering the water below them. "I've never met a mage who was afraid of heights."

_Afraid or not, it'll still kill you_, he thinks, but says, "It's a long way to fall. And then a rough swim back to shore."

"Just a fall for me, then." Therrin considers the lake. "I can't swim." She turns to look at him squarely, forehead creased in a frown. "Did Wynne send you?"

"What? No." He shifts on the windowsill, uncomfortable and preoccupied with trying to calculate how angry she'd be if he just yanked her back inside for the sake of his own sanity. "I just… I mean." _Pure poetry, Cullen._

She seems to catch on to his discomfort, frowning down at the windowsill. "This must look bad."

"Yes, it does," he says immediately, voice almost cracking in relief. "Please get down from there."

She does, swinging her legs around and hopping lightly back down once she's inside, turning to fasten the window closed and—

And those are _not_ Tower-issued robes.

Cullen doesn't know what they are, just that robes are supposed to go down to the floor instead of stopping at the knee and robes aren't cut in wide stretches up to the hips and down through the… and oh _wonderful_ he's been caught gaping like an idiot.

She gives a little laugh, nervous, and glances down at herself. "You don't think Greagoir's head will explode, do you?" _Greagoir's?_ he repeats to himself incredulously. No, not Greagoir's.

"So you know how to swim," she says to break the rapidly-growing-awkward silence after that. "Would you be willing to teach—oh there it is," she says, taking off for the table, "I wish I'd known that book—"

"Yes," Cullen blurts before he can think, and then he does think, and sighs inwardly.

"Stephen," Therrin finishes slowly. "I was wondering if you'd teach Stephen how to swim." She snatches up the errant book, darting a wary glance at him sidelong from beneath her lashes. "He has these nightmares. But they aren't demonic or anything, he's just afraid. He almost drowned before he came here, and when you said you could swim I thought that maybe if he knew he could swim… the nightmares of drowning wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he would know he could get out of it. Does that make any sense at all?"

"Yes," he says resignedly, wondering how crazy she'd think he'd gone if he just bashed his head into the wall a few times in frustration.

"All right," she says, and stops, curling fingers into Dog's fur and looking at Cullen oddly. "So…"

"I don't think he really wanted to be helping Wynne anyway," he says, casting his eyes to the ceiling and wondering if he should go pray.

Just less than an hour later Cullen is waist deep in the small shallow part of the lake at the base of the Tower, holding onto the waist of a spluttering mage-boy who keeps trying to cling to his arms more than swim.

Not that Cullen can blame him for his fear. In autumn the water is cold and choppy, and the lake itself has currents that run under the surface and tug at unwary swimmers, deep and dark and spreading out to the horizon, filling up his ears with the sound of waves.

If it had just been him and Stephen it might not have been so bad, but they have an audience. Therrin is there, of course, not-reading the open book on her lap in favor of watching the pair of them flounder in the shallows, and Wynne is tying a scarf over her hat to keep it in place as the breeze snags at the ends and tugs them briskly toward the water.

Therrin keeps giving him the strangest look. It's… distracting. And Stephen keeps trying to climb up his arms and perch on the top of his head, more afraid of the water than the templar. Finally Therrin wades out waist-deep to take the little boy into her arms where he clings and shakes with fear. She brushes damp hair out of his eyes. "It's all right," she says against the top of his head. "It's all right. You're safe. Cullen won't let anything happen to you."

The words make something go still inside him, unmoved by the push of the waves and wind. He watches her over the little boy's hair, and she watches him back, bafflingly calm and quiet as snow.

Stephen glances over his shoulder at Cullen, wary and dark-eyed, but if Therrin says it's safe, it must be so, and it's only a moment before he reaches back out for the templar and the moment breaks.

Therrin goes back to looking at him oddly again. "What?" he asks finally, incredibly self-conscious and becoming increasingly unsettled in his own skin. "Have I grown another head, or something?"

"No," she says, a little strained. "Sorry. It's—" Therrin gives a strange laugh, twisting her hands. "I've never seen you out of armor, before. Ever."

Cullen glances down at himself. "Ah." He isn't sure if she knows no one swims in armor because it's a very good way to drown very quickly, so he doesn't say anything else.

Therrin smiles wanly, looking out at the horizon. "Yes. I'm going to go sit down again," she says, and she does.

It's another half an hour of splashing and floating and being watched before Stephen begins to get a handle on it, paddling around the shallows with a grin stretched wide and bright across his face. "Look! Therrin!"

"I see you!" she calls back, and smiles. "You're doing great!"

All things considered it is, Cullen thinks, a very good afternoon. With any luck Greagoir won't ask too many questions or take exception to helping Stephen… and it is just helping Stephen, he thinks.

Once they drag themselves out of the water, sodden and dripping and shivering pleasantly, Wynne wraps Stephen in a blanket and steers him back for the Tower, tutting over how cold his nose is as Therrin drapes the other blanket over her arm and bends down for her book. Cullen doesn't see the feather-bookmark get whisked away by the breeze but he does hear Therrin's muttered complaint, and when he looks up she's wading off the little spit of land at the edge of the shallows, walking into the waves after it.

"Go on ahead," she tells him, when he starts that way. "It's just… _damn_," she grumbles as the black feather floats on a wave, just out of reach. "Get back here, you stupid thing."

Stupid or not, it doesn't stop her from going after it, walking waist-deep into the water and reaching out only to have the feather slide away on the top of another wave, receding, teasingly close but not within her grasp. Chest-deep, and it drops off sharply over there, if he's not mistaken. "Therrin—" he begins, a warning that's too quiet and too late.

And there, faster than he expected because she's so much shorter than he is, she hits the drop-off and the unnatural current that whips fast around the Tower, and her head goes under and she can't swim.

_Lake Calenhad eats mages._

Ice blooms thick in the pit of his stomach and he is running before he realizes it, water up to his thighs and chest and face as he plunges into the waves hardly aware of anything except that Therrin hasn't come up again. The water is dark and he can't see—no, wait, there, he sees her hand break the surface and then she's gone again, dragged under the waves and around the Tower. The world goes cold and deep-ink-dark under the lake, and the force of the current pushes the air from his burning lungs. He swims on through the moving wall of water that pushes him too fast to resist, through the screaming in his mind, through the seconds ticking like some terrible clock, jarring one by one in his bones until he finally _finally_ reaches out and feels her, snatches hold and drags her up.

The world goes cold. _Colder_, he realizes belatedly, as they both get buoyed up together by Therrin's new-conjured blob of ice. He clings to it as she coughs water from her lungs and sputters, crying… no. Not crying, _laughing_. For some reason it makes him furious, and the anger doesn't abate when she sees his expression and breathlessly explains, "Oh. Oh, Maker. My five-year-old apprentice is cleverer than I am."

"It's not funny," he grinds out through gritted teeth, fear breaking over him like another cold wave and chilling him from the inside out. "You'd have died."

"I know." She doesn't laugh, then, resting her head against the ice and floating, breathing hard. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Cullen doesn't know what to say to that.

But the current is easier to swim across than against, and by the time they reach water shallow enough to stand in they are nearly on the opposite the side of the Tower. Cullen shakes with effort and cold, barely able to drag himself out of the water at all but he does somehow, and her too, pulling her up onto the little strip of land at the Tower-base in the tall grass and watching as her eyes flutter closed.

"I'm so sorry," she says again. "I didn't—"

"Forget it," he manages tiredly, hunched over on hands and knees and trying to breathe slow to ease the burning in his chest. "Just… just forget it. You're not hurt?"

The shake of her head rustles the grass, pulls at the lakeweed caught in her hair. "No. You?"

"No." He's cold and tired and he'll be sore tomorrow, and he doesn't know that he'll ever get the image of her going under out of his mind, but he'll live. It's what he does, apparently, and there's bitterness in it but for once, he's too tired to let it gnaw at him.

Anyway Therrin's lying in the grass by his knee watching him with lake-dark eyes, serious and quiet and different, somehow. A hard swallow jerks her throat up and down. "Thank you. For everything. Cullen—"

And that's _it_. _Please stop talking_, he thinks, and almost says it out loud but doesn't because he doesn't have time. It's only inches between them and he is damned already and it's only the very smallest kind of fall to lean forward and press his mouth to hers.

She stops talking, immediately. And shifts underneath him, a hand coming up soft to cup the side of his face. And then everything sort of… explodes.

And he will play this back in his head a thousand times in the small hours of the morning and never remember it the same way twice, but the basics of it never change: the small noises she made in her throat as he'd kissed her, her mouth, open and warm and dragging him in like an anchor, his fingers tangling with the lakeweed in her hair, her hands sliding up his sides, making him shiver. Pressing in hard and pushing atop her, a hand clutching tight at her hip and finding skin because of those ridiculous, _fantastic_ robes and the jolt of heat that had seared through him at the brush of skin under his fingertips, her mouth on his neck burning like a brand and the way she'd arched into his touch, shaking with something that wasn't cold and pulling at his clothes in a desperate sort of frustration.

Cullen lists back, barely able to pull away, to look, to _really_ look because he's been tricked before. But the demon-visions had never been anything like this, with both of them soaked and shivering, flushed and bedraggled and lying in the grass in the shadow of the Tower. Her eyes have gone soft and fevered and wild at once, and he knows that he is going to do this. "Cullen," she murmurs again and it might as well be a command. He leans forward again to kiss her, to fall in as with the lake and not come out.

"Therrin!"

Stephen's voice, high and afraid and close, and here they are wound tightly together, panting and flushed in the long, dead grass, staring at one another. Cullen realizes dully that he's got to get up first, because he's the one lying on top of her and she can't move.

Letting go is more difficult than he expects.

But he manages it, somehow, and once he gets to his feet he holds out a hand to pull her up. Wynne's too distracted by the fact that nobody died to notice the state they're in and Stephen launches himself into Therrin's arms, half-hysterical, and they all somehow make it back into the Tower together, Cullen's hand steady on her back and warm like home as they walk together up the countless stairs.


	9. The Thousandth Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Minor liberties taken. There's only, what- five or six floors in the Circle Tower in-game, but when you look at it from the dock that sucker is _tall_. I'm going on the idea that it's huge.

Three hundred forty-five.

Three hundred forty-six.

Once upon a time, Therrin had tried to count the number of stairs in the Tower. It had been no easy task; there were places seven-year-old apprentices simply weren't allowed to go. She'd had to slip out from under the eyes of the templars during a lesson to do it, counting down the empty stairways with solemn attention.

_Are you out of your mind? _Jowan had demanded when he'd caught up with her. _All that fuss and trouble and the best you can come up with to do is counting steps?_

He'd threatened, briefly, to tell the templars where she'd gone, sure they'd make her Tranquil even for such a small crime. The grim specter of Greagoir's disapproval had been enough to dampen her newborn courage and she'd begged him not to. Jowan had relented, of course, once she'd offered up an explanation of how she'd slipped out from under templar attention in the first place, but he'd had a better idea of what to do with freedom than counting stairs and she'd abandoned the idea in favor of rushing headlong after him into trouble.

Why hadn't she _known?_

Three hundred fifty-nine.

She still doesn't know how many stairs are in the Tower, save that there are many and they seem to be multiplying, and she's still shivering with cold and other things as she plods her way up the steps. Stephen is leaden on her arm, holding on and dragging her down but she can't bring herself to tell him to walk on his own, no matter how much her muscles burn with fatigue.

Four hundred and twenty.

Wynne casts a glance over her shoulder at her and Therrin wonders blankly if it's some sort of healer's instinct, some unteachable knowing Wynne seems to have oceans of and which Therrin has little hope of ever possessing. Wynne always seems to know who's sick, who's injured and hasn't even realized it yet, who's running on fear and about to crash with little warning.

Perhaps it's one of those things that comes with time. Therrin doesn't know.

Five hundred and four.

Wynne glances back again, forehead creased as she stops on the stairs. "Stephen, really. A big boy like you should be walking on your own. Do you need to stop?"

It takes a moment for Therrin to realize the question's directed at her as Stephen releases her arm and Cullen's hand falls away from her back. "Can I?" She's been following blindly, not thinking, trudging up the steps in a numb sort of haze, distracted by the hand between her shoulder blades guiding her on and the sound of waves rushing in her head.

_the warm weight of him above her, the desperate rasp of his breath against her ear, his hands on her skin_

Not productive. She tries to clamp down on the thought but it darts away laughing.

Wynne takes a closer look at her, and Therrin hopes her expression isn't too transparent. "You do look rather worse for the wear. Do we need to stop? These stairs don't climb themselves, you know, we can take a rest."

"Um," she manages, and glances around, trying to determine where in the Tower they are before Stephen's stomach growls loudly. It's time to eat again, and he'd already skipped lunch as it is. "No," Therrin says at last. "Best to get upstairs." To the dining hall, she realizes. The thought pulls her up short. Everyone will have heard about Alistair by now. The prospect of sitting there being watched like a specimen under glass is horrifying.

She must be transparent enough anyway; Wynne gives her another look of concern. "If you'd like me to take Stephen off your hands for a little while, you can wait it out and come up once everyone's a bit more scattered."

Therrin releases a breath, shaky. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." Wynne's hand comes down on Stephen's shoulder, steering him firmly upwards. "A good meal first, I think, and then we can get back to sorting those ingredients. We've still hours of work ahead of us."

The look Stephen tosses back at Therrin over his shoulder is somehow indignant and forlorn at once, a peculiar combination of _how could you do this to me?_ and _oh _please_ don't leave me with her for long_, and once they're out of sight Therrin sighs, casting another look around the Tower. They're higher up than she'd thought.

"Fire," she says under her breath, trying not to look at Cullen or miss the warmth of his hand on her back. "I think there's a fireplace through here."

Her robes are still sodden and clinging to her skin, her hair tangled and dripping down her back. She plops gracelessly in front of the stone fireplace and tosses a careless flame spell into the depths of it, kindling the dead remnants of a fire long extinguished. Cullen shifts, uncomfortable, whether because of the magic or because he's damp and cold too, Therrin can't tell.

He looks so strange without armor. There's a visual definition of Cullen in her mind and the space he occupies is broad, armored and gleaming with the breadth and weight of steel. Without it, he's both smaller than she's used to and larger than she expected.

Which is not worth dwelling on, because it leads to thoughts that are not productive. "You don't have to stay," she tells him, glancing around the room at the stacks of old chairs and bunkbeds and avoiding looking at Cullen. "I'm too tired to do anything wrong, I promise."

He casts her a faintly exasperated glance.

"Really," she says, strained, because the silence has become unnerving and she feels compelled to fill it as she stretches her hands out to the fire for warmth. "I'll just be here with the furniture. Which don't respond to magic, incidentally, or demons, so no chance of me raising an undead furniture army and storming the Tower."

Babbling. Babbling is bad.

Cullen sighs. "I'm sorry."

Therrin looks over at him. "What?"

"For taking advantage of you. Before," he explains, shifting again in discomfort but not looking away.

Therrin suspects her mouth might be hanging open but doesn't care. "Taking advantage of _me?_"

"Yes." He looks distinctly guilty, as though he's already mentally preparing for atonement. "I knew you were upset and I—"

"I thought I was taking advantage of _you_," Therrin interrupts dully.

Cullen's mouth snaps shut. "Oh," he manages, at last. "No."

_his fingers caught in her hair and his heartbeat hammering under her hands and the liquid pool of heat_

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," she manages with a ragged laugh, burying her head in her palms and trying to suppress a rising tide of an odd, numb hysteria. "Except that I might be going mad because I can't think about anything but dragging you down on top of me again to get started on those half-dozen redheaded babies."

Cullen splutters. "_What?"_

Therrin's head jerks up like a puppet's, gut flooding with horror. "What? _No_. Oh, _no_. I didn't mean to say that out loud." But Cullen is staring doggedly at the ceiling, making a vaguely strangled sound in his throat.

Wonderful. Therrin spits out the vilest dwarven curse she knows and it doesn't seem half vile enough. _Clearly I hit my head on a rock or something underwater. Or I'm dead! I'm dead, and this is the Fade. _And Cullen's her demon tormentor. Therrin is not surprised.

"This is…" she manages, wincing. "Really bad."

Cullen's sigh seems drowned in the crackle of the fire. "Don't worry about it."

She glances at him sidelong. "Are we even yet?"

"Not even _close_." There's something like a desperate humor in his voice; she doesn't know what to make of it.

"Well." Therrin jabs at the fire with a nearby poker. "Great." _Idiot._

She doesn't look when he takes the few steps to the fireplace and sits down on the floor, close enough she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. "That's one of the tricks the demons tried," he says after a moment. "The visions, to break me with."

She doesn't understand at first, and frowns, but something in his expression is too grave and wounded for her stumbling questions. It dawns on her in another flash of memory, of a different templar enthralled by a demon, desperately lonely and happy with just the threadbare illusion of a lover and children.

And Cullen trapped in a cage, alone, and redheaded babies that he'll never have. With her, apparently. "Oh," she says at last, quiet.

He stops short, shaking his head at the fire with dull incredulity. "I don't know why I told you that."

"It's been a strange day," she offers, holding open the door for an easy verbal exit for the both of them. "I think the whole Tower's gone mad. Because, let's see. I went up against Greagoir and won," she begins, counting on her fingers and staring at the ceiling in thought. "I found out Alistair's getting married very quickly, which brings up all sorts of things I'd rather not think about. I almost drowned. I almost _froze_. I was kissed by a templar and probably would have done much more if we'd not been interrupted—"

At the wordless noise of protest he makes, she stops short, frowning at his expression. "You can't look that surprised, you were there." _And on top of me, and trying to slip your hands inside my robes and crawl inside my skin. _But she doesn't say that.

Cullen looks pained. "It wasn't _that_ awful," she argues, vaguely stung at the reluctance in his expression. "And even for a mage—"

"It isn't that," he interrupts, passing a hand over his eyes tiredly. "Well. It is and it isn't." When she says nothing in response, he glances over. "You _do_ know this…" He trails off and can't finish it.

She has a feeling things are headed downhill, the kind of line of thought that leads to an argument about _duty_ and _can't_ and wouldn't that be familiar, but it's still a kick in the gut. "This?"

The words he'd gritted out in the magic-cage come roaring back, laced with venom and hurt: _You are a mage and I, a templar. It is my duty to oppose you and all you are. _Which probably doesn't include making love in the long grass beneath the Tower.

_What is _wrong_ with you?_ Therrin demands of herself with a mental shake. "No, I get it," she sighs, and Cullen's unformed explanation dies with something like relief. "I do."

They fall into silence, long and deep and lonely, staring at the fire. "Do you want to be even?" Cullen asks at last, treading carefully, and when Therrin turns to look at him the firelight's reflecting copper in his eyes.

Do you want, she thinks. Does it matter what she wants? But Cullen isn't the cause of the sudden upswell of bitterness and there isn't any point in taking it out on him. She nods mutely, watching emotions flick across his face.

He shifts on the ground, shoulders moving beneath his shirt, looking for the right words. "I want to know… You were so adamant, before, when I was in that cage. That you wouldn't hurt anyone. That you'd—I think I remember you saying you'd rather spare a maleficar than harm an innocent, but that might have been my imagination. I was pretty far gone by then." Therrin's stomach plummets as Cullen watches her closely. "What happened? It's not something I thought you'd decide; I thought you'd damned us all."

Therrin says nothing a moment, remembering. She had said that—the bit about the maleficar—and then rushed off to face Uldred, exhausted from the trial in the Fade, worn low from fighting corrupted templars who'd known just where to strike to do her the most harm, shaken by the sight of so many familiar faces become just crumpled bodies tossed aside in the wake of the demons. She'd scarcely glanced at the Litany of Adralla, and it had only been when Alistair had pulled her along that she'd left Cullen in the cage, running off to fight, to finish it.

It had been a harsh, bitter lesson on the price of going to battle unprepared. She had never forgotten it, but she could never have imagined the cost would be so high.

At least a templar generally knows who is friend or foe, because they all have uniforms and don't (usually) turn against one another. It had been a different story on the floor of the Harrowing chamber with Alistair's blood pouring hot through her fingers, with mages flinging chaotic spells at each other that had sizzled and crackled just over her head. She hadn't been able to tell who was a friend, who was an enemy, if that mage casting a lightning spell was doing it at her or the abomination over her shoulder, but the results were going to end with her dead anyway unless she did something, and all the time Uldred's hammer-blow coercion had run heavy through her blood as the words of the Litany had fled into nothing in her mind.

Uldred had died. So had Irving, despite her horrified tears and Wynne's desperate attempt to save him. Even as he'd let out his last, rattling breath, he was the one trying to reassure them that everything would be all right. She thinks sometimes that Wynne has still not really forgiven her.

Therrin becomes aware that she's been quiet for some time, and Cullen is still waiting, so she swallows the knot from her throat and tells him. Tells him everything, sparing no detail: the soul-crushing fear, the horror of watching her home transformed into a nightmare, the exhaustion that had made even the simplest of spells near-impossible to cast. How they'd all have been dead many times over if it hadn't been for Leliana's shouted warning, Wynne's quick thinking, Alistair's blade. How she'd had to choose, again and again, between her companions (the ones she loved and trusted) and the mages (the ones she'd grown up among but couldn't be sure of because friend and foe all looked alike) and how it was, on the whole, a far worse Harrowing than the first one could ever have been.

This one, she couldn't help but think, she'd failed. Except the templars had congratulated her, at the end. Even Greagoir. It had only made things worse.

"So," she finishes, a little hoarse. "Now you know." Cullen is quiet a long moment and she can feel him watching her as she looks into the fire. Willing the memories to retreat back into the dark places in her head doesn't help, and her eyes sting as she teeters on the verge of tears and tries to blink them away. But then the sound of mabari nails skittering on stone comes from the stairs, and Dog bounds in wagging his entire back half in joy at the sight of her.

It's a relief to be able to think about something else. "Hi, boy," she says, feeling the weight of memory fall away with grateful ease. "I thought you were with Oghren."

Dog barks, a mischievous laugh to it that means they did find the kitchen and sneak by the cooks, and the thought of Oghren and Dog making an attempt at stealth is enough to make her smile. But Dog goes still, ears pricked forward at Cullen, nose twitching, and he trots over to sniff the templar like a mabari on a mission. Cullen looks faintly uneasy. "He's… very big."

"Yes, he is," she agrees. Dog sniffs him slowly, from his hair to his knees, looking puzzled. He finally turns to Therrin with a look that means _are you sure about this?_

Therrin shrugs. Today isn't probably the best time in the world to decide anything, what with the wound of Alistair too fresh and sharp, and the memory of Cullen's mouth on hers still distracting, and in any case she's battered herself enough against impossibilities.

But life is short, and her life shorter than it would have been, and stranger things have happened. She can't exactly recall any, just then, but she tells herself it's true. "It's getting late, isn't it?" she says to Dog, who bounds back over and attempts to wiggle into her lap. Dog is bigger than Therrin, but it doesn't stop him from trying. "Let's get back," she says, and he rolls out of her lap and lets her stand, licking at the tips of her fingers as she kills the fire with an ice spell, making sure no embers are left to burn in the empty room.

This time Cullen doesn't flinch. He does, however, hesitate when she heads for the door. When he looks her way his face is grave, and thoughtful, and at last he shakes himself from his reverie and says, "Thank you for telling me." _You're welcome_ doesn't seem like an appropriate response, not for that. She nods, instead. "I hope I wasn't too presumptuous," he goes on, looking uneasy.

"No." She fidgets with the end of her sash-belt. "You weren't." _Besides, if you're going to be kissing me you ought to know these things._ She shakes her head, trying to get rid of the thought. "And anyway, hard as it was, it's over."

He relaxes a little, at that. "Yes."

Dog barks—_you two take _forever_and there'll still be food out if you hurry so why aren't you hurrying?_—and Therrin remembers to stop looking at Cullen and follows, putting a hand to Dog's back as he sniffs at her robes and sneezes. "You don't like the water?" she asks.

Dog grumbles a growl. Waves are tricky and hard to catch. But roast beef is easy to catch because it doesn't run, but not if other people _steal it_.

"I get it, I'm coming," she says, smiling as she follows Dog onto the stairs and stopping. "Oh."

Cullen stops in the doorway. "Something wrong?"

"No. Not really." She gives her head a shake, vaguely aware that her hair probably looks like drowned birds are nesting in it. "I was counting the stairs in the Tower. I lost count, is all."

"Two thousand one hundred and twelve," Cullen says easily, catching up and walking at her side.

Therrin blinks. "What?"

"There are two thousand one hundred and twelve stairs in the Tower. Counting the ones in the basements and side passages, and the staircase on the fifth floor that doesn't go anywhere."

It stuns her still. "You _counted?_"

Cullen's eyebrows flick together in a quick, puzzled frown. "Yes. Twice. It—" He gives a quiet huff of a laugh, shaking his head a moment in self-consciousness. "I don't know. I guess it seemed like the sort of thing someone ought to know."

There's the ghost of a smile at the edge of Cullen's mouth and Dog is whining at her that the food is going to be gone and it's going to be _her fault_ and he'll love her anyway but he'll love her so much _more_ if there's food, and Therrin fights a smile that won't go away as she climbs the stairs, bemused and not alone and contemplating the oddness of the world.


	10. The Brambled Path

Once, as a small child, Cullen had seen a mother cat guarding a lone kitten from a pack of dogs, hissing with her fur standing on end, cornered with nowhere to run.

Therrin looks like this when she argues with the templars. It didn't have to be this way at all, which is the damnable part. Greagoir could have just called for Stephen himself, collected the blood for the phylactery, and sent the boy on his way with a minimum of fuss.

Instead, the lack of the usual routines at the Circle seem to have made a mess of protocol, in more ways than one. Under normal circumstances, there would be no Oghren around to needle the templars about their inferiority to the mage that killed the Archdemon. Under normal circumstances, Stephen's blood would have been taken when he'd first arrived.

Under normal circumstances, a trio of irritated templars wouldn't have decided to take matters into their own hands.

Greagoir is not happy, that much is obvious. Cullen knows Greagoir prefers to do things smoothly and quietly whenever possible, because when one mage is agitated it's all too easy for the agitation to spread like wildfire. Even without a full contingent of mages or templars, protocol exists for a reason. The Knight-Commander had already had words for them about Therrin, specifically: _watch her, and for the Maker's sake try not to _provoke_ her. The templars have enough problems without a reputation for killing the Hero of Ferelden._

But now instead of coming along quietly like he might would have done, Stephen is huddled behind Therrin's hip and Therrin is fighting a losing battle, backed into a corner worried and snappish, eyeing the drawn blades of the templars with mutinous outrage. "You could have said something. Instead of just chasing him and scaring him you could have said something."

At her other hip, Dog growls agreement, massive paws planted and looking ready for war.

Greagoir looks tired and angry—at Therrin, at Stephen, at the templars who'd made a mess of this in the first place—but unmovable, as much a gray wall of steel as a man. "The timing leaves a good bit to be desired, yes." This said with a cutting glance at Daven, the likely instigator. "But an apprentice is an apprentice. It should have been done the day he arrived."

In other words: it's the principle of the thing, now, and the templars won't be moved. Therrin's eyes flick over to Cullen, quick and unhappy before she turns back to Greagoir. "Tell me how this isn't just as bad as blood magic."

Cullen can tell Greagoir's losing patience and Therrin isn't helping, especially not when she shifts, torn between hissing at Daven and comforting Stephen, and bites out, "You're using people's blood as a tool to control them. If it were a mage doing it you'd kill them."

Cullen tries to catch her eye again, to shake his head in wordless warning _don't, you're making it worse_ but Daven's stepped closer and put himself between them and he can't see her. He can hear Stephen's hiccupping breaths and Dog's growling goes louder, and a cold wave of trepidation washes through him at the thought that this might not end well.

He realizes Wynne is there, just behind his shoulder, craning her neck to see. "What's going on? Therrin?"

"Wynne, would you _please_ tell these idiots to back off?" Therrin snaps, out of sight.

The older mage goes rigid with disappointment. "What in the _world_ are you doing?" She brushes past Cullen, heading for the templars, who back away warily, holding naked blades and an empty vial. "Greagoir? I wasn't aware we were doing this in the library. Or at all, today."

Greagoir looks tired. "Neither was I. Nevertheless—"

"It can't possibly be necessary for three grown templars to terrorize one little boy for the sake of a bottle of blood," Therrin says tightly.

"Therrin, _enough_," Wynne orders. "Being combative is only going to make things worse. Stand down."

Cullen thinks for a wild moment she's going to fight, to hiss and resist, take Stephen and flee the Tower. But her training is strong, and mage-children are trained from the very first day to be obedient above all else. With a distrustful look at the templars—which changes to _hunted_ once her eyes find Cullen—she takes a step back, retreating further into the corner as her shoulders slump.

And none of this is _necessary_.

"Here," Cullen begins, brushing forward and taking the vial. "You do it."

Therrin watches him warily, still on guard, but he's fairly sure it would take a bit more from him than from any other templar to provoke her to attack. Stephen peers out from behind her, cautious but no longer terrified at the sight of Cullen. "Will it hurt?"

"Yes," Cullen says, "but only for a moment."

He can feel the gaze of the other templars on his shoulders, which is nothing new, and the weight of Greagoir's silent contemplation, but he holds out the vial and she takes it, and then he offers her his dagger. It might be one of the riskier gambles of his life as a templar, and when he hears armor shift behind him, he wonders if he might have made a mistake. But he isn't wrong; Therrin takes the blade wordlessly and sinks to the floor with Stephen in her lap, and at Greagoir's cautious direction, Therrin makes the cut herself.

It's a small thing, leaking blood and magic.

Stephen scarcely whimpers, more interested in the knife than the wound, and asking when he's going to be old enough for armor and a blade and can he borrow Cullen's if he's careful? Cullen gives him the smallest of smiles, catching the blood as it fills the little vial and handing it off to Greagoir the moment it's done.

Therrin doesn't look up, pushing magic into Stephen's skin to heal it and tracing a finger over the cut as it closes. She looks guilty. It takes a moment to understand, crouched in front of her and wiping blood off the blade in silent confusion as the others begin to disperse, but when she finally looks up from the little boy's hair the disquiet in her eyes gives it away.

_Complicity_ can be an ugly word.

"Cullen," Greagoir says behind him coolly, and when he turns the Knight Commander's expression is unreadable. "I'm going to need a word with you."

The guilt in Therrin's eyes is flooded out with a sharp flicker of fear, a flicker Cullen feels too and tries to crush. He can feel Therrin watching him as he follows the older templar out.

Less than five minutes later Cullen is sitting across from Greagoir at the massive old desk, trying not to sweat in his armor and trying to determine if the Knight Commander _knows_. Surely—_surely_—if he'd seen them together in the grass Cullen would have been sent away immediately, disgraced and shamed and probably imprisoned. For the sake of soul and duty he should confess. He has to confess.

But he can't quite bring himself to say the words. Memories of the sound of waves and her uneven breathing rest quiet in his mind like a half-remembered prayer, a hush that sinks down through his bones and draws him into stillness.

Greagoir drums his fingers against the desktop, watching Cullen with calculating eyes. "She trusts you, doesn't she?" the Knight Commander asks after a moment with something like bemusement. "After a fashion. That was rather unexpected, in the library; I thought we might have to resort to force."

"I believe so, ser," Cullen says carefully, deeply uncomfortable. _Please don't ask why. _The silence thickens, Greagoir watching him as if waiting for the younger templar to give something away. Cullen forces his expression to blandness and thinks about being a statue.

"Good," Greagoir says finally, seeming satisfied. "While a bit unusual," he allows, "whatever advantage that presents itself should be taken into consideration. And if she does trust you, it might make her all the easier to keep reined in." The Knight Commander's mouth twitches the tiniest fraction, a fleeting grimace. "A bit ironic, I suppose. But remember it well. It might become necessary to use it at any moment."

_Especially after today_ hangs unspoken in the air between them. Using her feelings against her. It seems… well, it seems wrong, somehow. "Of course," he says anyway with a nod, in all appearances the perfect templar, perfectly obedient.

Cullen is dismissed, the unsettling feeling of twisting in his stomach, turning over and over, the Tower corridors long and shadowed and cold.

He comes across her hours later dragging an ancient, battered tapestry down the hallway, and she smiles when he offers to take it off her hands and follows her to her room. "Thank you," she says as he drops it on the floor by the wall. "That would have taken me ages."

"It's nothing." He wipes the dust from his hands, looking around the room. "Where's Stephen?"

"Hiding." She makes a sound that isn't really a laugh, pushing the door closed. "Ran off with Dog a couple hours ago."

"He's not still upset, is he?" He thinks privately that Therrin was more upset than Stephen, but if she's still disturbed it's hardly apparent and so he doesn't bring it up, relieved that at least the hunted look is gone.

"No. He seemed fine enough. He kept asking me when he could get a knife of his own and armor like yours." She crouches lightly over the tapestry, rolling it open on the floor and eyeing the pattern critically: a tower, covered in vines and white flowers. "Those aren't roses, are they?"

Cullen tilts his head for a better look. "No. It's the Wise Scholar and the Princess. They're climbing starflowers." At her surprised look, he frowns. "It's from the story."

Therrin runs her fingers over one of the woven flowers, tracing the shape of it. "Really?"

"_Everyone_ knows the Wise Scholar and the Princess. Your mother never told you nursery tales?"

"No." She pushes to her feet next to him, smoothing down her robes—actual, respectable-looking robes, which he should probably be grateful for but isn't. "I lived with a deaf great-aunt and her blind old manservant before I came to the Tower. It wasn't really a house for stories." She cocks her head at the tapestry, considering. "How does it go?"

"I'm… not much of a storyteller," Cullen admits, not wanting to say that this particular story had always been a favorite and that since he was seventeen years old he'd associated it with her.

She's only disappointed a moment, and he considers telling her anyway, but her eyes dart over at him and she frowns as if preparing for bad news. "Greagoir wasn't… he didn't ream you out for going around kissing mages, did he?"

"I don't go around kissing mages," Cullen protests immediately, affronted. "I kissed _you_." Therrin goes still. "You were there," he reminds her, wondering why she looks so surprised.

"Right," she says, eyes dropping back to the tapestry and voice dropping low. "Yes. It's just." She glances up at him sidelong, curious. "I suppose I expected it to be… I don't know. Something you'd want to pretend never happened."

Cullen's chest feels tight, bound with invisible tethers that pull him in every direction. "No. I don't… I don't think I could just pretend it never happened."

She's still not moving. "Oh." When nothing else is forthcoming, she ventures, "Is that a bad thing?"

He swallows around a sudden tightness in his throat. "No. I don't think so." He can see her relax at the admission, more girlish than Senior Enchanterish. With a quick glance at the closed door and the fleeting thought that this isn't what Greagoir would have had in mind when he'd said the bit about advantages being taken, he decides that talking is overrated and awkward and leans down for a kiss, instead.

It isn't anything like before. Last time had been liquid fire and need, raw and desperate as he'd shattered and been remade. This time is quiet, soft as starlight and sweet, a nearly-chaste brush of his lips on hers and little more.

Therrin stares at him for a moment when he pulls away, looking like she might laugh. "I'm beginning to think you're a bad influence on me," she accuses after a moment, sounding vaguely scandalized and indignant even as the corner of her mouth curls up.

But Cullen feels like grinning like a fool, suddenly. "That's impossible," he says with forced blandness. "I'm a templar."

For some reason she blushes. "So I take it all this is covered in the templar handbook?"

There isn't really a templar handbook, and if there was, all this would probably be covered in a column under the enormous heading _DON'T_,  but the world's been turned upside down and shaken enough already, because mages _DON'T_ come back to the Tower, and mages _DON'T_ trust you when your purpose being there is just waiting to kill them when they turn, and mages _DON'T_ open below you like a flower and kiss you hard enough to take your breath away when you feel you're a moment away from losing yourself entirely.

Either Therrin is not a very good mage, or he is not a very good templar. Or both. But he has the feeling he's a good person—he's always tried to be one, at least— and even if she is a mage she doesn't deserve to have this… this whatever-it-is turned against her the way the demons turned it against him. Cullen decides it, on the spot: he won't be part of it. He'll do what must be done if and when she falls into darkness. But he isn't going to lure her in with this as a tool to kill her more easily.

Immediately upon resolving it, relief breaks over him like a wave.

But she's still watching him, her eyebrows raised. "I have a confession," Cullen says. "I never made it through the whole handbook. I don't think anyone ever has."

While she's still blinking surprise he leaves, heading straight for the chantry altar to pray. The bright line of right seems ever-harder to walk with the needs of piety and of obedience to Greagoir and of his own rebellious wants tugging at him, each seeming to pull in opposition to the others and all obscuring the path before him in doubt.

-oOo-

For Therrin, it is a month of arrivals.

A leave-taking, first: Oghren heads to Denerim (for the Pearl, he says, snickering, because he intends to try them all out at least once now that they don't have to rush on account of there being a Blight on). Therrin and Dog watch him go, equally mournful, though for different reasons.

Dagna arrives two days after Oghren leaves, as flushed and dimpled as though she's run all the way from Orzammar. Perhaps, Therrin thinks, she has. She's only got to point Dagna in the direction of the library before the dwarf sets up residence, clambering up the high ladders without hesitation and staying up with Therrin into the small hours of the night to discuss her latest findings. After the quiet desolation of the empty Tower, to have someone else to discuss magic with is a profound relief in ways Therrin wouldn't have expected.

More children are brought, one after another. Some of the children brought aren't mages at all, merely orphans and the unwanted accused of having the curse of magic, of fouling an autumn harvest or making a loved one sick, and once accused there's little going back. These children are ushered off to Redcliffe, though the town already has enough orphans and displaced already and can't cope with many more.

A brief scrap of a letter arrives—undated, unsigned, unaddressed—but Therrin knows Morrigan's handwriting and doesn't know anyone else who'd be so blunt: _Simply because you walk in under your own power and lock the door yourself doesn't make the Tower any less a cage. I thought better of you._

The Grey Wardens come.

It's a full day of questioning with Dog at her side, all very delicate. No one comes out and openly demands to know why she isn't dead, and all she can offer them is an apology and an explanation that she was merely the newest of recruits and just doesn't know. She isn't sure they believe her. But they're cordial when they bid her goodbye, and they extend an invitation to join them. _Another time, perhaps_, they say when she explains that she has responsibilities at the Tower, and she nods politely as though entertaining the idea.

She knows she'll never go.

Right on the heels of the Wardens come more mages, enchanters from Orlais and with them, templars, and suddenly the Tower is alive again with the sound of voices, spells ringing in the practice rooms and children running through the halls, and the Orlesian accents remind her of Leliana and make her smile.

And of course, just when Therrin believes she's really beginning to get a handle on things there comes a dark, rainy night when a storm lashes and howls around the Tower, and in a deafening crack of thunder Alistair arrives.


	11. The Unwilling Bridegroom

It takes Cullen only a moment to recognize the man stalking into the Tower, rain-drenched and irritated, and only a moment more for Stephen and Dog to skid around the corner and run straight into him. "Sorry! Cullen, hide me!" But Stephen's mischievous grin fades at the sight of Dog, hackles raised as he growls at the newcomer.

King Alistair doesn't exactly have a smile and pat for the mabari, either. "Oh great, it's _you_. Where's Therrin?"

Dog snarls quietly, blocking the hall.

"Who are you?" Stephen demands of the king.

"Who am I? I'm the King of Ferelden, who are _you?_" Alistair frowns, apparently unsure of what to make of the little boy in his way.

"I'm Stephen, the Senior Enchanter's apprentice," he says, puffing out his skinny chest. "And she's _busy_."

Cullen raises a brow. "Doing what?"

Stephen's bravado falters. "Doing… a spell. Didn't go right. Dinner sort of… exploded. It's not my fault!"

"You're not supposed to be practicing spells at mealtimes," Cullen reminds him, catching hold of his shirt to keep the boy from scampering off and hiding on top of a bookcase. "We've discussed this."

"I _know_," Stephen answers, squirming and near-hopping in place, "but Dagna said—"

"Look, sorry if this is interrupting," Alistair cuts in, giving his head a small, disbelieving shake. "Therrin is actually here, isn't—oh."

Cullen thinks Therrin has never looked paler, stopping in place after rounding the circle hall, and his breath goes brittle in his chest when he notices her expression is as shuttered and faraway as it was the day she dragged herself back to the Tower in the first place. "Your Majesty."

The King looks like he's about to fall from a great height, hands moving restlessly as though he isn't sure of what to do with them. "Therrin."

Stephen is still scowling, pulling at Cullen's hold on him. "_Senior Enchanter_."

Alistair hardly spares a glance at Stephen before staring again at Therrin, brow furrowing. "We have to talk. Tonight. Where's your office?"

"You're getting married in four days," Therrin begins, low and dangerous and crossing her arms in front of her defensively. "What in the world do you think you're doing here?"

"Three days, actually," Alistair corrects. "So if you don't mind? Office."

Dog's steady growl gets louder.

"I don't have one yet," Therrin admits, glancing behind Alistair as his bodyguards begin filing in the door, apparently irritated at being left behind on the stairwell.

"Room, then. Anywhere we can talk in private. Don't tell me they don't give you your own room."

She hesitates, eyes darting to Cullen in a troubled look he can't decipher before she gives in. "Yes. This way."

It becomes a small mob, following, because Cullen isn't just going to stand there_,_ Dog is still growling, and Stephen is as agitated as he is curious.

The half-dozen royal bodyguards are not happy. "Your Majesty…"

"Here?" Alistair says when Therrin opens the heavy door, only belatedly recognizing the anxiety of his bodyguards. "It's fine. Really. Just stay out here, would you?"

The bodyguards are glancing around the Tower hall, nervous as though they expect to be assaulted by demons and blood mages at any moment. "Sire—"

Alistair brushes off their concern, impatient and in no mood to listen. "Yes, I know. _Mages_, right? Horrible demon-vessels and this one the worst of all because she bites. I think I can handle myself, you know, I did train as a templar. Just give us some time, would you?"

And then Alistair pushes shut the heavy door, nearly closing it on Dog's nose. There's nothing for Cullen to do but wait, the seconds ticking by slow and empty as he watches the door and wonders what that look had meant.

-oOo-

"This one _bites_," Therrin complains as soon as the door's closed, shooting Alistair her most venomous glare. "Are you out of your mind? I live here. I work with these people and that little boy is my apprentice."

"Turn me into a frog, then, and get it over with," Alistair snaps, settling heavily into a chair and looking immensely tired. "How private is this room?"

Therrin hesitates, nerves screeching displeasure. "Why?"

He gives her an irritated look that only lasts a second before he sighs, dropping his eyes and grimacing at the table. "Because I'd hoped to talk to you. And I'd rather not have to tiptoe all around the subject for fear we're being overheard by every mage in the Tower."

Maker above, if she only _did_ know how to turn him into a frog… but there are dark circles beneath his eyes and he's as unhappy as she's ever seen him. Throwing a tantrum over the fact that just looking at him makes her heart go hollow and dull isn't going to help. She sinks into the chair across from him, trying to be polite. "It's as private as it gets, for the Tower. I don't have to share, and the walls and door are thick. As long as you're not screaming, no one should hear you."

His huff of a laugh is short and nearly humorless. "Right. No screaming, then." He doesn't say anything more. Therrin digs her fingernails into her palms under the table and waits until Alistair sighs and looks at her, level and serious. "So… the Grey Wardens. They came to see you, didn't they?"

"To interrogate me, yes," Therrin says, but the humor falls flat.

"Yes, well, they paid me a visit, too." Alistair's head falls back and he stares blankly at the ceiling. "What did they ask you?"

"Mostly about my magical studies," Therrin answers carefully, watching Alistair. "They seemed very interested in what sort of magical training I'd had growing up in the Tower. Areas of specialization, that sort of thing. They never did come out and ask me why I wasn't dead. But it did seem odd."

"What did you tell them?"

Therrin frowns, puzzled. "About magic? The truth. That I'd trained mostly in primal magic. That I know a fair bit of healing. And that I know the theory of shapeshifting but haven't really practiced beyond some trials in the Fade. Why?"

Alistair's mouth twists. "They asked _me_ about magic, too. What I knew of it, what you knew of it, what anyone I'd ever known might possibly know about it. And didn't seem very satisfied with my protest that I was merely a simple ex-templar and knew nothing of the horrible heathen magics of which they spoke."

Ice lodges in Therrin's throat, impossible to swallow around. "You think they know?"

"I think they suspect… something." Alistair sighs, deep and ragged, and brings up a hand to rub at one eye. "They never came out and said anything, though. It'd almost be easier if they had, but… it seems so odd."

Therrin worries at her bottom lip, thinking. "Have you heard from Morrigan?"

"No, thank the Maker. Have you?"

"Yes."

It's only a moment to retrieve the note and slide it across the table, and only another moment for him to read it and drop it with another unhappy laugh. "Lightning might strike me for saying this, but I think I agree with Morrigan on this one. I can't believe you came back here after everything that happened. Why didn't you stay in Denerim?"

_Because of you_ she thinks but says instead: "I wanted to get home. And Denerim always seemed very loud, to me. I could never have gotten used to city life." Alistair drags a hand across his face, looking weary, and slumps in his chair a fraction. When long seconds tick by in silence and nothing else is forthcoming, Therrin ventures, "I did have… a theory."

He looks up, not particularly hopeful. Maker, he hadn't looked this bad in the Deep Roads, when they had been too beset by darkspawn to rest and haunted by the noises that squalled and echoed off the stone.

"There's no way to prove it, of course," she barrels on. "And you're not going to like it."

The corner of his mouth twitches, a bittersweet smile that dies immediately. "And with that cheerful thought in mind, what's your theory?"

Therrin laces her fingers together, wondering where to begin and trying to shake the reluctance that catches like thorny little barbs in her mind. "You know that I looked through Flemeth's grimoires a bit before I gave them to Morrigan, remember? Out of curiosity."

Alistair's eyebrows rush together in a frown. "This doesn't sound promising _at all_."

"I told you you weren't going to like it," she says mildly, frowning at the table so she doesn't have to look at him because the serious regard is too-familiar and makes a dull, wordless ache throb at her bones. _Focus_. "In any case, I didn't see anything about—well, Archdemons—when I was looking through the grimoires. Granted, it's Flemeth, and just because I didn't see it doesn't mean it wasn't there. But a good bit of her notation was familiar enough to read, and you'd think that something like how to get around dying because of an Archdemon would have jumped out at me, given the circumstances." She takes a breath, shaky, and tries to force herself calm.

What would Wynne do?

She sits up a little straighter. "Anyway. Magic doesn't just… happen. And rituals aren't just made up in a moment of inspiration, they have to come from somewhere. They build on the work of mages who came before, they draw knowledge from previous sources and previous rituals and hundreds of years of work. So if… if there wasn't anything about it in the grimoire, and Morrigan hadn't said anything about the Archdemon before that last night…"

She doesn't want to continue, reluctant as though saying the words will make them true. But Alistair is, for once, waiting.

"If Morrigan had the information about the ritual, if Flemeth had it, then it stands to reason that someone else might have it too."

"The Grey Wardens," Alistair cuts in quietly, looking sick.

Therrin nods, apprehension twisting in her belly. "It would explain why they were so interested in whatever magic we knew. If they knew that it was possible…"

Alistair swears softly, leaning forward in his chair. "But if they knew that there was a way around it and chose death anyway…"

Therrin feels rather like swearing, herself. "It gets worse, I'm afraid."

The look on Alistair's face is almost funny. "How can it possibly be worse than my demonspawn child dooming the world?" he demands, elbows propped on the table and expression twisted in incredulity.

_He's not going to like this_. "If Morrigan knew the whole time that we were eventually going to be facing down an Archdemon, she only mentioned it at the very last moment. And if it wasn't in the grimoire…" She hesitates. "We have to take into consideration that Morrigan might not have known about the ritual," Therrin says, trying not to cringe. "If it's something _Flemeth_ knew… she might have somehow taken over Morrigan's body at some point and not let on for the sake of going through with the ritual."

It takes a moment to sink in, but when it does Alistair looks like she's slapped him. "Are you…? You're not. _Flemeth?_ You're telling me you think I might have slept with _Flemeth_ in Morrigan's body_?_"

"I'm only saying it's a possibility," she manages, which does nothing to mitigate his horror.

"Oh, by the Maker," he groans, pushing out of the chair and pacing in jerky, uncomfortable strides. "Why didn't you say anything about this _before_ the ritual?"

"I didn't think of it until later," Therrin admits. "At the time I was preoccupied with the thought of us not dying." And fleeing to Leliana's room so she wouldn't have to hear everything, but Therrin doesn't want to say that.

"So… what do we do?" he asks, looking lost. "If… I mean, I didn't have any illusions that it would be all puppies and ribbon candy, after, but if it's so bad they'd rather knowingly sacrifice Wardens than go through with it…"

"I don't know," Therrin admits. "I don't know if there's anything we can do."

"Oh, I'm going to be sick," Alistair moans into his hands.

"It's still just a theory. I could be completely wrong," she reminds him.

He sighs, looking drained. "Whatever it is, it can't be good. But at least we knew that." He doesn't stop pacing, glancing up at the rain-lashed window and looking at everything but her, and silence settles between them like a shroud.

"You should be in Denerim," Therrin says at last, barely audible. "You're going to be late for your own wedding."

Alistair's laugh is utterly without humor. "Late for a wedding I don't want, to a woman I've never met, to stabilize my hold on a throne I never asked for? Right. _So_ appealing. Can't wait to get back."

The bitterness in his voice shouldn't be surprising, but the depth of it makes Therrin wince. "You weren't about to run away from an Archdemon. Surely the idea of one woman can't be that daunting."

"I really don't want to talk to you about getting married to someone else," he says quietly, settling back into the chair. "I have limits, you know. There's only so much anyone can be expected to take before it's too much."

That, at least, Therrin knows to be true. He must see something in her expression because his face falls a little and the anger bleeds away, leaving only a weary unhappiness in its wake. "I should probably go. I just… I wanted to ask you about the Wardens, and I wanted… well." He pauses, gives a lingering look that never quite makes it to her eyes. "It doesn't really matter what I want, does it?"

It sounds like ashes and tears, sleepless nights and memory. She knows how it feels.

But Alistair shakes himself, not unlike Dog, the king-mask slipping into place like armor as he rises. "Well. Time to go. They're writing songs, you know, about you slaying the Archdemon. The bards have been busy. I think the truth is getting embroidered like an old woman's hanky. Last I heard you'd killed the Archdemon and then ate his heart."

Therrin just blinks, standing automatically. "His heart?"

"So I heard. Probably tasted like evil, and jerky, and doom." The humor falters, an uncomfortable gravity floundering in its place as Alistair's hand rests on the doorknob. "I hope… I hope you're happy, here. Though I don't know how you could be. Templars are awful company, believe me, and terrible conversationalists, and never, ever laugh."

A memory of Cullen's quiet smile tugs at Therrin's heart, a bright spot of sweetness in a sea of grey. But she isn't about to talk to Alistair about that. "You'd have made a really awful templar," she says instead, fondly.

Alistair's smile broadens a little, becomes something more genuine. "I'll take that as a compliment. So. I'm going to go, I guess. Back to Denerim, to get stuffed into ceremonial clothes and married off to some poor girl who has no idea about… lampposts, and basilisks, and… and doom."

"You'll have a clean slate, at least," Therrin says, considering.

"True." Alistair sighs, bracingly, setting his shoulders. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," she offers as he opens the door to find the bodyguards outside, and Dog waiting at the doorjamb, bounding in as soon as the door's wide enough, and Stephen looking mournful at being left out. The mabari plants himself in front of Therrin, eyeing Alistair distrustfully.

"You know that dog bit me," the king grumbles, stepping out into the hall. "I almost scarred."

I'm almost sorry, she thinks. "Goodbye, Alistair."

And then, mercifully, he walks away.

Stephen is cross. "He shut me out!"

Therrin sinks down onto her bed and he clambers near-immediately into her lap. "We had to talk. Though he could have been more polite about it, I think," she sighs, glancing up at the sight of Cullen in the doorway.

Cullen looks distinctly uncomfortable as he steps in, eyes cutting into the corners of her room as though ready for lurking trouble. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes." Therrin sags a little. "It's fine. He caught me off guard, is all, everything's fine."

"Wynne said you can't get married to him because he's a king and you're a mage," Stephen says sourly against her shoulder, ribs still bony against her arm. "He doesn't look like a king."

Therrin's heart seems to jerk to a stop. "Wynne said that?" When he nods against her shoulder she manages a shaky breath. "No. It's complicated. Circle mages aren't allowed to get married."

His head jerks up in indignation. "Allowed?"

It's too much to explain to a little boy in a way a little boy would understand, and she's tired enough already. "It's complicated. Grown-up things. Don't worry about it."

Stephen thinks it over, unready to let the matter go. "Dagna said we're different. Is that why?"

"It's... yes. That's as good a reason as any, I suppose," she says.

"But _we're_ the same," Stephen mumbles into her neck. "I could marry you."

It makes her smile, despite Alistair, despite everything. "You're a little young, sweetheart. But I appreciate the thought." He only grumbles. "Do me a favor, mmm? Go see if there's any bones for Dog in the kitchen. He's looking skinnier since Oghren left."

Dog likes this plan. He bounds for the door immediately, barking for Stephen to come on and Stephen races off behind him, lanky limbs disappearing around the corner.

"So it's sweetheart, is it?" Cullen asks quietly, coming nearer. "With Stephen," he clarifies at her puzzled look.

"I suppose so. He is very sweet, sometimes." She runs a fold of her robe between her fingers and sighs. "I didn't want an apprentice, but it's really not so bad." When she looks up at Cullen he's looking at her oddly, as though he's biting back a laugh. "What?"

He takes a step closer and reaches out. "You have chicken in your hair."

Therrin is about to say _you've got to be kidding me_ when he pulls the little bit of chicken out gently and holds it up for her to see. Chicken, she thinks. Because Stephen exploded dinner. And it was there the whole time. "That bastard," Therrin grumbles, unable to hold back an embarrassed laugh. "He could have told me."

Cullen makes a noncommittal noise, glancing at the door. "He wouldn't have made a very good templar."

Something in the way he says it makes it sound like a reassurance, as though Alistair would never have been good enough to be posted at the Tower, would never have guarded her properly against enemies within and without, and it seems oddly, improbably sweet. "And he wouldn't have looked as good in the armor as you do," she adds, amused.

Cullen's eyebrows jerk up for a second as though he doesn't know whether to laugh or stammer. "Are you flirting with me?"

Therrin considers a moment. "Is it working?"

He smiles, then, and gives his head a small shake, reaching for her hand and pulling her to her feet. "I think you need to see Wynne. That chicken must have hit you harder than you thought."

It occurs to her later as she eats bits of exploded chicken with Dog's head on her knee, with Stephen grinning merrily at her with cheeks stuffed full of sweetcake while she steals glances at Cullen as he watches over them all—in comparison, Denerim might have seemed very, very dull.


	12. The Mageling's Honor

Greagoir does not like the Orlesians. It's sort of a surprise, for Cullen. While the strange accents seem unusual to him, he's never lived in a Ferelden under Orlesian control, and so doesn't have the same knee-jerk sour reaction to the newcomers that the Knight Commander does.

As odd as it seems to Cullen, there are times when he suspects Greagoir likes the Ferelden mages better than the Orlesian templars. At least Wynne and Therrin are known quantities, after a fashion. Now that the Ferelden contingent is outnumbered by Orlesians, they seem to drift together into one another's company with increasing regularity.

Dagna huffs into the library one afternoon, setting down heavily beside Therrin and Wynne and frazzled as an angry cat as Cullen looks on. "If I have to hear one more time about how everything in Orlais is prettier and smarter and more elegant while we're all just squatting in the dirt scratching ourselves. Do they ever stop talking?"

"Theoretically, they have to stop sometime to breathe," Therrin says, not looking up from her book. Cullen doesn't smile, not on guard, but he wants to. And to brush that little bit of hair out of her eyes, because it's not going to stay behind her ear, no matter how much she pushes it there.

Wynne spares a glance for the pair of younger women. "Some exotic Orlesian magic, perhaps, that allows them to spout noise constantly independent of all thought or meaning."

"It wouldn't be so bad if it was at least nice," Dagna scowls. "But they're not. They're vile. I'm not a sodding footstool and I've got more brains than most of them, magical ability or not."

"They're not all vile," Therrin mumbles absently, tucking hair behind her ear only to have it fall forward again. "Just foreign, is all."

The dwarf barrels on, peevish. "No, trust me, they're vile. They think it doesn't matter what I hear because I'm not a mage. They go on about how Wynne's only the First Enchanter because she's a templar lapdog, and that you're only Senior Enchanter because—" Dagna stops, looking uncomfortable.

Therrin looks up from her book, frowning slightly. "Because what?"

Dagna winces, shifts awkwardly at Therrin's elbow, and once her eyes find Stephen across the room with Dog, she grimaces. "Look, I don't care one way or another. But I overheard them talking about how you weren't qualified to be a Senior Enchanter and only got it because you're… the king's whore. Their words, not mine. Obviously."

Something ugly and unpleasant crawls through Cullen's veins as the color drains from Therrin's face, and he expects… a muttered curse, a hissed dismissal. Something. Instead, Therrin hunches over her book even lower than before, reading and shutting out everything else, oblivious to Wynne's sympathetic look.

What seems like long minutes later, she gives a shaky laugh. "Now I can't help but think of Greagoir with a lapdog."

Wynne's glance is amused. "You might be surprised."

"Right." Therrin tries to smile. "Something small and fluffy he keeps under his desk and cuddles on the sly."

"What are you working on?" Dagna props her chin in her hand and peers over Therrin's shoulder, seeming relieved that the discussion of the Orlesians is over.

Therrin flips a page. "If it turns out not to be completely impossible, I'll let you know. Until then, I think I want to look into it a little more." She grimaces, shutting the book and pushing back from the table. A sharp, low whistle calls Dog to her side as she walks away. Faster than normal, Cullen thinks.

But he's still got the library to guard and Wynne to look over, and it's some time later when a crash comes from down the hall that Wynne and Dagna go to investigate and he follows, blinking at the sun-soaked brightness of the training room.

They're playing fetch. Or it would be fetch, if Therrin was just a woman and if Dog was just a dog, but they're… not. The mabari is a hurtling blur of muscle and teeth, launching himself after the bone Therrin flings across the long room, bounding over tables and weaving around chairs in a makeshift obstacle course. All the while Therrin paces out a restless circle, tossing an egg-sized stone over her head and flinging spells at it in succession: ice, fire, lightning.

Dog slides back to Therrin with the bone clamped in his jaws, nails skittering across the stone floor as he comes to a halt. She reaches down to take it and flings it in another direction and Dog is off, a warhound on the hunt, and Therrin throws the stone into the air, searing it with spell after spell.

She glances his way but seems to look through him instead of at him. Dog crashes into a table at the end of the room and when he launches himself back toward Therrin, a little group of the Orlesian mages come in to investigate the commotion. Behind them come templars, the Orlesians Cullen doesn't know yet by sight.

Therrin ignores them all, casting small restless spells at the stone and throwing the bone again for Dog, and Cullen has the feeling she's holding back. After the Blight, after months of travel and purpose and actually using magic, he wonders if she's bored.

It isn't long before one of the Orlesian mages steps closer, his grin very wide and white behind a dark, cropped beard. "Come now, what could that rock possibly have done to you, hmm?" Therrin and Dog go still not far from Cullen, and the stone smacks back into Therrin's palm in one last catch. "Surely this isn't the best you can do. Is it?" He looks Therrin up and down. "You did kill an archdemon, did you not?"

Therrin frowns, hand finding the top of Dog's head by instinct. "You think I didn't?"

The Orlesian mage—Alain, Cullen remembers suddenly, his name is Alain—spreads his hands wide. "Do you always answer questions with questions? Let us have a game. A contest, if you will, to break the tedium."

 Cullen glances to Wynne, but she only watches without comment.

Therrin's frown deepens. "What kind of contest?"

"A duel. A battle between you and me, the best of Ferelden and the best of Orlais," Alain answers, grinning over his shoulder at his fellows. There's some laughter from the Orlesians at this, a few calls that sound encouraging. Cullen can't make out the words.

Therrin shifts the tiniest bit. "The best of Ferelden and the best of Orlais? That's a little presumptuous, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Alain feigns surprise, pacing in a small circle so the onlookers can hear him. "I didn't think so. Did you really kill an archdemon, mageling? Or are the rumors about you just so much nonsense?"

_Mageling, _Cullen thinks, affronted at the disrespect. But Therrin has caught the insult and her expression has gone flat. "What rules?"

Alain laughs, pleased at the concession, lines crinkling a bit at his eyes. "No killing. And no maiming, I suppose. There are those unfortunate few among us who do not appreciate a good maiming now and then. Besides that, no rules."

Therrin glances back over her shoulder. "Wynne?"

"Come now," Alain chides, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you need permission before you can breathe? Before you can get up in the morning? Prove your mettle, mageling, and give us a duel."

For the number of people standing along the walls, the room is terribly quiet.

"If you must," Wynne says. "Don't damage the Tower." She doesn't caution against damaging the other mage, though, Cullen notices.

Therrin's eyes flick to Cullen a moment but he can't make out what the look means, and then she's kneeling by Dog, ruffling his ears and telling him something too quiet for anyone else to hear. He plants himself at Wynne's side and watches, a massive hulk of muscle and teeth and ready devotion.

And then it begins. There are no weapons to brandish, no steel to intimidate the other fighter, no circling to size up the opponent. There's only a pitching feeling, a hiss Cullen feels more than hears, the Veil thinning and then a tugging sensation as Alain draws in power and begins to cast, Therrin watching him.

She's not casting. Cullen wonders why, because if the swirl of dark energy around Alain is any indication the spell's going to hit her hard. When he releases it a crackling spray of lightning springs to life, a spray that does nothing because Therrin's not there anymore to hit. She's dashed behind the Orlesian, rolling to duck behind an overturned table, flinging quick, small spells from cover that make Alain jerk in place, lightning winding over his limbs in blue ribbons of energy that make him twitch. By the time Alain can rally a counterspell Therrin's already gone, ice washing uselessly over the table where she'd been.

This isn't how mages are supposed to fight. Cullen had seen mage-duels before and the duelists always place themselves a certain number of paces from each other, standing still as they cast spells one at a time, back and forth. They don't move_. _ They certainly don't sprint from one cover to another, hiding behind bookcases and tables. Some part of Cullen's mind insists that Therrin is doing this all wrong.

But it doesn't take Alain long to adjust his strategy. He abandons standing in place for moving and dodging, harrying Therrin with winding, hissing spells she returns in rapid-fire succession as the Veil thins around them. Every templar in the room is on high alert, watching in silent expectation, and though he's hardly aware he's doing it Cullen counters her every move in his mind.

Greagoir had been right. If it comes to it, Therrin will be difficult to put down. He can almost feel the discomfort of the other templars, watching the duel as though it's a blunt demonstration of everything they're up against. There's so much he knows she can't have learned in the Tower: the quick jerk of an elbow, the running pivot that spares her the brunt of an entropy spell and leaves her shaking her head in an effort to resist it, the ready stance… that's a _templar_ stance, and he wonders a moment who would teach that to a mage before he remembers.

One of Alain's fellows tosses him a bottle of potion and she hurls ice at it before he can grab it, the glass shattering as lyrium potion falls in half-frozen spatters on the ground. "That's cheating," Therrin calls, crouched behind a table.

"No rules, remember?"

She only takes off again, ducking behind a bookcase where Cullen can see her and Alain can't. The air feels thick and oppressive with magic, spells gone astray and the Veil strained. Perhaps Wynne shouldn't have allowed this. There had been enough damage done to the Veil here in the first place; this can't be doing any good.

"You can't run forever," Alain complains, a sheen of sweat on his brow as he drinks another thrown potion, stepping over the broken glass of the first.

The grin that flickers across Therrin's mouth is quick, feral. "Then come get me." As Cullen watches she casts from cover, lips moving in a silent mumble, summoning something that grinds along Cullen's senses with the dusty feel of something impossibly old.

Alain isn't a fool, apparently, and not so easily baited. When he approaches, it's with a ball of lightning growing in his palm, ready to strike, but she doesn't leap out and cast as he expects. Therrin rolls across the floor and casts from a low crouch, and before Alain can compensate and fire off his spell off he's trapped in a prison of stone, paralyzed and toppling to the ground.

It's long seconds of quiet as the templars and mages watch, as Therrin snaps off a thick icicle from a bookshelf—one of Alain's spells that didn't find their target—and she brandishes it like a wicked spike, standing above him in warning as the stone seems to trickle away from the Orlesian's body. "Done?"

Cullen can't see his face, but Alain gives a laugh. "Done. Who taught you to fight, mageling?"

Therrin has dust in her hair, dust streaked down the back of her robe as she extends a hand to help him up. "It's Senior Enchanter, Alain."

Alain takes the proffered hand and lurches up, his weight making Therrin stumble a moment and ready a small defensive fire spell that she reins in at once. He catches hold of her upper arm as he stands, bending low and muttering something in her ear, and Therrin shakes her head, once, and shakes him off. "Senior Enchanter, then," the Orlesian allows with a slight bow and the ghost of a smirk. "Thank you for the duel."

Therrin nods shortly and turns back toward Wynne and Cullen, and for a moment he can do nothing but stare. She looks half-wild, glowing with power and wholly at ease with the remnants of magic still licking bright tongues of fire at her fingertips, while he is watchful and still, sword ready in its sheath should he need to strike her down. For a moment, the differences between them seem more absolute than ever.

She looks away, bending down and scooping up the broken glass as the onlookers disperse and the Veil begins to reweave itself whole. "Here," he says at last when they're the only ones left, crouching down with a basin for the shards. "Put them in here."

Something thorny squirms beneath Cullen's breastbone as she glances up at him from under that errant lock of hair. "Is this the part where you remember that I'm a mage and it's not all right to like me?" she asks, pitching her voice low so it doesn't carry.

The world seems to hang a moment, snagging on something invisible as she waits for his answer. He casts a look around, but even with no one watching, the room still isn't private. "I think you're dangerous," he says at last, slowly. "More than you know, probably." He expects her to argue but she only waits, expectant. "But no," he finishes. "I knew you were a mage before, and liked you anyway."

More than liked, but this isn't the right time or place for that conversation at all. Cullen doesn't think it's funny but a glimmer of amusement flits across her mouth before she falls serious again. "Liked? Or wanted?"

Because they aren't the same thing, and one is more dangerous than the other, he thinks. "Both," he confesses.

Therrin is quiet a moment, rocking back on her heels and considering him. "And… still?"

Feeling flutters like bird-wings beneath his ribs, shifting and indistinct. "Yes. Still." When she says nothing, only studies the stone under her fingertips, he presses, "What about you?"

The silence spins out like honey, stretching gold in the sunlight as the moment seems to lengthen into eternity, but at last she nods. "Both," Therrin admits quietly, and gives a soft laugh. "Still. Though I can't say this is anything like what I expected when I came home."

The tops of his boots are cutting into the back of his knees from crouching and his feet are asleep, but he hardly cares. "I know what you mean."

Her smile softens and for just a moment it's like the vision in the circle cage with sunlight and shadow as she'd melted into his arms and curled around him, winding her way around his heart and down into his soul. But that was a lie and this is real, really her hand in his as he pulls her to her feet and really her eyes watching him carefully. Reality is so much better than the illusion had been.

But still, this is new and uncharted territory, and there's more that Cullen doesn't know than he does. "I don't know how…" he begins, and wonders how to finish. "I'm not sure how to do this."

Therrin tilts her head, watching him. "Are you going somewhere?"

"No," he says a little thickly, wondering what that has to do with anything.

"And I'm not going anywhere," she says, dusting off her hands on her hips. "I suppose that settles it." She smiles again, and when she speaks again her voice is very quiet. "I'd kiss you but you told me not to."

Cullen blinks, a kaleidoscope of thoughts pinwheeling colors through his mind along with the frantic feeling that he's missed something. "Why would you listen to _me? _I don't know what I'm doing."

She laughs again like water, dust rising from her hair as she shakes her head. "We're a mess, aren't we? But not here, I suppose."

He can only agree, holding onto the thought of her like an anchor because everything else seems to have shifted. "Not here, no."

"Later, then," she says. Dog is at the door, ears pricked forward in readiness. Therrin tosses a last smile over her shoulder at Cullen as she follows the mabari away and Cullen doesn't try to suppress the buoyant feeling at the thought that there'll be a later, and she's not going anywhere, and that there are _both_ and _settled_ and other wonderful words that tug at his mind like a playful breeze, warm as sunlight and soft as shadow.


	13. The Long Winter

His human is always cold.

"It's a bad winter," she says, wrapping hands around another hot cup of tea, or shivering in bed as he jumps up close to warm her. There isn't quite enough room for them both.

You should curl up with the puppy, he says.

"I can't. Wynne thinks I coddle him enough as it is."

But puppies are _made_ for coddling, and the mage-puppy is happy and makes his human smile and sneaks great plates of food from the kitchen for Dog. Dog approves. And the puppy is clever, which Dog likes, and they hide together from Wynne when she insists that they need a bath, and Stephen can fit into places Dog cannot. It is a good arrangement.

There are always whole packs of mage-puppies trailing after his human in daytime, smelling of magic and fear because they haven't grown into their teeth yet. And the knight (who is not quite a knight, not like king-knight who had left. Wynne tries to explain but the idea of a sword-priest makes Dog's nose itch.) he is there sometimes in the mornings and evenings, and his human smiles, then, and forgets how to talk.

Sometimes they give up on talking and put their lips together, and at those times Dog stands guard because he understands private and the smile Therrin starts wearing sometimes, small and secret.

At night she still dreams, and cries out in fear at dark things Dog cannot see. The sword-priest, he says one night with her nose buried in his fur, shaking away tears. He's supposed to fight demons?

"Something like that," she croaks, muffled into his side. "But not really."

Dog growls a little and pushes his nose under the blanket. He doesn't like _not really_. He should guard at night against demons, Dog says. But you would need a bigger bed. She laughs at this, but it isn't funny. He is trying to court you, Dog reminds her, wondering if his human has forgotten. The sword-priest is not very good at it.

"I know," she says, softly, scritching her nails along Dog's shoulder. "But I don't know if… I mean, it might never…" She sighs, and the puff of air makes Dog's ear flick. "It's..."

Dog knows the word that comes next: _complicated_, and he doesn't like it because it makes his human sad.

-oOo-

Therrin can't remember a more brutal winter.

Wind whips and howls around the Tower, frost blooming in thick sheets of lace over the windows as drafts creep their way into every room and sap the warmth from her bones. The ever-burning fires in every corner do little to dispel the shadows or cold in the massive empty spaces of the Tower, and so it seems she always has a cup of something hot close by to lace her fingers around so they don't get too stiff.

It wears on them all. The adult mages fight against snappishness, tempers shortened by snowstorm after snowstorm that obscures any view of the outside world and makes living in the Tower feel all the more oppressive. Children still trickle in and immediately go stir-crazy at the darkness and quiet, and Wynne gives them all over to Therrin.

It seems sometimes that for every child who comes to the Tower bright-eyed and curious there are four or five who tremble at the sight of her, terrified of their own powers and shamed beyond reason at the sin of being born a mage. It seems a long, hard road ahead of her trying to get these children to a place where they can even begin to learn, but it's satisfying to see their first flickering attempts at magic. Therrin's more than a little surprised to discover that she likes being a teacher.

Weather aside, the winter may have been more bearable if it had been Cullen watching her teach, but it almost never is anymore and she's never quite so comfortable under the eyes of templars she doesn't know. Greagoir calls for Cullen at all hours, keeps him close, and when Cullen does find her (in her office, usually, because she has a proper office now and it's even draftier than her room) he's weary-looking and solemn.

Most of the time he can shake it off. Sometimes he listens to Stephen ramble on about all he's learning and gives encouragement, smiling a little with indulgence. Sometimes the two of them just talk, sitting on either side of the desk with the office door open as children pop their heads in before bed for a never-ending stream of questions.

Every once in a while after the students are in bed, the door is locked. They give up talking, then, except for little murmurs they pass back and forth, lips brushing and words half-lost against each other's mouths, his gauntlets discarded and his hands at her waist. Sometimes it's sweet, and he's earnest and serious and it makes her want to laugh a little, and she rests her head against him and wishes his armor wasn't so cold.

Sometimes it's more. And it's maddening, those times, perched on the edge of her desk with her arms around his neck and his hands sliding down her back, all wanting and warm and wishing it could go further.

Those evenings are frustrating. But as much as she'd like to invite him to bed, she doesn't. He isn't ready, she suspects, he isn't sure and may never be sure, and she isn't about to press. Something in her thinks that if he ever does come to her it will be permanent because Cullen just wouldn't for anything else. The idea of permanence makes her nervous, and she shakes away the thought because what does she know about men? Clearly not as much as she'd thought.

Besides, she isn't quite over Alistair. She doesn't know when the sound of his name will stop that odd little knife-twist in her heart but she's heartily sick of feeling sick over it, and is more than ready for it to just get better already. Soon, she tells herself, shivering and curling closer to the fire. It'll be better soon. No matter how long and brutal the winter, spring always comes.

-oOo-

Greagoir dies in the bleakest part of late winter.

It's Cullen who finds him in bed, cold and gray as stone, seeming very small without armor and hardly big enough to occupy the space in his mind Greagoir had always commanded.

He'd been under Greagoir's authority since he was nine years old. The Knight Commander had been the closest thing Cullen had ever had to a father.

There are duties to perform, templar rituals, blessings for the dead and wardings against evil and a hundred more. Cullen staggers through the day feeling dead in his own skin, and somehow all the templars are looking to him to tell them what to do and he doesn't know. He gets tired of the questions very quickly.

He hears Wynne's soft noise of dismay at the news but doesn't have time to ponder over the way the First Enchanter goes quiet and withdraws, leaving Therrin to shoulder her duties. He does notice that Therrin gets the older woman to her room and comes back frazzled, casting a glance at Cullen that means _what in the world do we do now?_

Cullen doesn't have any answers. With a lack of any other direction the templars carry out their appointed rounds as always, and the mages carry on their work and classes as always, and it looks for all the world like nothing has happened, like nothing has changed. For Cullen, though, the Tower feels like a foreign place, home but unfamiliar, as though some stranger's come in and shifted everything around, just a little, and he's the only one who notices that anything's wrong.

In the afternoon he goes through Greagoir's massive desk, feeling guilty and half-expecting to be caught and reprimanded at any moment. He finds lyrium and polishing oil, vellum and letters written over the span of decades. There are personal effects he's never seen before: a battered copper, tarnished almost beyond recognition, a dog-eared copy of the Chant of Light, a hands-length of ribbon that looks like it used to be green.

There is a letter addressed to him, written in Greagoir's strong, square hand (that Cullen will never see again, because Greagoir is gone and the Tower has lost its anchor):

_Ser Cullen— _

_I have already written to Denerim to inform them of my choice for successor after my passing, and though there may be some deliberation over the issue I believe it will be little more than a formality. There are few enough of us left at the Circle who truly understand what it is to serve the Chantry and the Maker. You have been in my training since you were small, and I believe you know your duty. You survived the attack on the Tower and the horrors it entailed and have emerged stronger for the hardship. There is no other I trust to take up the mantle and carry on as Knight Commander. You have my utmost faith in your ability to guard over the Circle, to do what must be done and do it well._

_More instructions will likely come from Denerim as soon as they're informed of my passing. _

_It was ever an honor to serve._

_Greagoir, Knight Commander of the Ferelden Circle of Magi_

The words seem to smear and blur across the page and it doesn't occur to Cullen that his eyes are brimming with tears because the weight of the world seems to have suddenly become so much heavier. He doesn't want it. He wants Greagoir back, abruptly, wants everything to go back to the way it was years ago when he'd been stupid and naive, before he'd ever attended a Harrowing, back to when the Circle Tower was simply home and light and safety.

The day is a nightmare that seems determined never to end. It does, finally, though day seems to give up to evening unwilling. As night falls over the Tower it seems darker than ever before, shadows skulking within and without.

Cullen wills himself to sleep but can't quite get there, and so stares at up at the ceiling with a dreadful bleeding hollowness under his breastbone at the thought of Greagoir, at the thought of duty, at the unwanted thought that the Tower is a prison he will never escape. He thinks briefly of running. He knows he won't.

He hears his door crack open and behind him a sliver of light widens and narrows as his door closes again, and then he hears the quiet sound of footfalls. He blinks in the darkness, about to demand to know who comes, but one murmured spell later a candle is lit and he sees Therrin standing in his room, troubled.

He is the Knight Commander now and should have some faint echo of concern for what a Senior Enchanter might want, or about why she's standing barefoot in his room at night, but he can't bring himself to care. "What are you doing here?" he asks, to break the silence.

"I wanted to say sorry. About Greagoir," Therrin says, anxious and very quiet.

Cullen almost barks out that he'd expect her to be happy that the Knight Commander had died, because didn't all mages hate Greagoir? But her expression is sincere and concerned, and it occurs to Cullen that she's worried about him. "Thank you." When she doesn't respond, he repeats, "What are you doing here?"

Uncertainty seems to pool around her, her fingers twisting in the sleeve of her robes. "I'm not sure," she confesses. "You just…" She trails off, miserable, and Cullen waits. "You looked very alone," Therrin says finally. The dim light makes the shadows around her eyes look deep. "And very sad," she goes on. "I know I didn't—I was never close to Greagoir, but I know that he was your commander, and that you two were…" She swallows. "I didn't think you should have to be alone if you didn't want to be."

Cullen considers this, dull and overwhelmed, and finally nods. Without waiting for further invitation Therrin crosses the room and slips into bed beside him, small and female and freezing, and she puts her arms around him and hugs him tightly.

"You're very cold," he complains, returning the embrace. Mostly cold, he amends silently. Her feet and hands are freezing, but the rest of her is warm and getting warmer, tucked against his body.

"Sorry," she says. When she pulls back a fraction, he sees the worry on her face, more naked than before. "Do you want me to go?"

There is a moment when Cullen thinks yes, wants to force out everyone and everything and every thought, doesn't want to be seen laid low with grief and loss. But he remembers that they're even and she'd seen Irving die in front of her. Whatever else she is, Therrin knows grief and she knows him. More than that: she is here and watchful beside him, winding indecipherable patterns on his shoulder with her fingertips. "No," he croaks out finally as his arms come around her. "Don't go."

Cullen buries his face in her neck and Therrin holds on for dear life, and nothing else needs said.


	14. The Kept Secret

Once upon a time Therrin had been trapped inside a templar's nightmare. It seems far away now, most of it. Sometimes it flutters at the edges of her mind right before she falls asleep, a dream-memory of tilting, shifting rooms and horror, of the trials of spirit and fire and stone.

Cullen tenses and jerks in his sleep, and she hopes that whatever he's dreaming he isn't there.

Therrin hardly knows what to do except to hold on, to make little soothing noises to calm him when he frowns at his dreams, grimacing at something she can't see and clenching his fists in her robe. The feel of it still tugs at her like something half-heard winding from the Fade, curling like a vine around her throat, but she takes a deep breath, and another, and doesn't let go.

_One breath at a time_, Leliana had told her once, after the Tower and Irving and Uldred. _There are times when we cannot live from day to day, Amell,_ and she'd laced their fingers together and held on, murmuring comfort. _We give up on days and live hour by hour, and if that does not work we live moment by moment, and if that does not work we live in the space from one breath to another. And with every breath you say 'I have not fallen yet, and yet, and yet.' And so we carry on when our hearts are broken and our spirits crushed and we are certain we can bear no more._

In the deep darkness of the night she watches over Cullen and measures out life in breaths. The hours trickle by in near-silence, and it's only when dawn starts creeping close that she begins to worry. She's not really supposed to be here.

Rephrase: she's _really_ not supposed to be here, and if someone was to walk in—Maker forbid, if one of the templars walked in—they'd both be in for a world of trouble. No one would be inclined to believe this was anything innocent. The uncertainty of whether or not she'd actually locked the door gnaws at her. She'd been thinking about Cullen at the time and not much else. It seems dangerously careless, now.

There's a tipping point approaching and quickly, of whether it's better to stay or go, to slip out under cover of darkness or to stay with him until he wakes, and she lies quiet in the dark, not quite sure what to do. Before she can decide it's better to leave he wakes a little, stirring against her bleary and slow, blinking at her like he suspects he might still be dreaming. "Therrin?"

She gives a weak smile in return, not wanting to talk in case someone hears conversation in here where she's not supposed to be. He seems to understand, retreating further under the warmth of the blankets, his arms still around her. It's… it's nicer than it should be, she thinks, tucked close against him. The darkness makes the whole thing feel nearly unreal, and she relaxes slowly, putting her worries aside for the moment. He is warm and solid beside her, better than any dream, and his breath on her neck stirs the little hairs behind her ear.

And then to her surprise his lips brush against the side of her throat, soft and slow, one hand cupping the back of her head as his fingers tangle in her hair and he kisses her. It's not like anything before, not desperate like by the lake, not teasing like in her office, not sweet like with the tapestry. It's deliberate, leaden and joyless, and she knows to her bones that it's wrong.

It doesn't stop her from closing her eyes and tilting her head back like an invitation, matching his silence with her hands holding the fabric of his shirt. And it doesn't stop her from kissing back when his mouth drags across her jaw to find her lips because loneliness is an agony, an old wound that aches with the weather, with the tide, with every time he touches her and lets go and leaves. Therrin is tired of almosts, and maybe-nevers, and the dull hollow feeling of dreaming and waking up alone. He shifts to hold himself above her body, slow and sure as though he's done it a thousand times, his mouth on hers again soft as spring rain as she relaxes into his kiss. It would be easy to let go, easy to let herself get carried away and let this become something more.   

Except that it's Cullen, and if there's any happiness in this, it's nowhere to be found in his expression. Even in the dim light she can see he looks hopeless, and lost in a way that seems all too familiar. Memories tumble in: _Cullen wouldn't ever_ and the sight of him in a cage, and he had not fallen yet, and yet, and yet.

There are tears at the back of Therrin's throat making it hard to breathe as Cullen traces his fingertips down the edge of her robe, following the line of it from her throat.  His fingers curl, brushing the skin just inside the hem, but he stills when her fingers lace over his in a wordless _stop_.

_I care about you_, she wants to say as he stops and his head falls to her shoulder, _and I want you, but not like this_. But Cullen sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and she doesn't say it. "I should go," she murmurs instead, very close to his ear, and he nods against her.

"Thank you," he says very quietly, once she's up. "For staying. I'm glad you were here."

He doesn't look glad but his face is as earnest as ever, as though this was something more than he could have hoped for. There's a moment when she hesitates by the door, wanting to tell him everything, _everything_… but she nods, instead, waving a silent goodbye before slipping out and disappearing into darkness.

-oOo-

It's odd to mourn Greagoir. Or rather, it's odd to watch other people mourn Greagoir, and not know how to feel. Therrin had had nightmares of him when she was small, little-girl terrors that there were claws under his gauntlets, cold and black and reaching out as she ran from him and he gave chase. But she isn't small anymore, and now nightmares hold far worse specters than templars.

Wynne takes it harder than she expects, which is odd at first, because it's Wynne. The same Wynne who'd tossed ice water on her for moping, who'd shaken her from wallowing in misery. Therrin hardly catches on, at first, because Wynne doesn't scream and wail and make a show of mourning. She just stops sleeping. It's only a day and a half before the First Enchanter looks like her own ghost, silent down the circle hallways and detached from anything real, untouched by the chatter of apprentices.

Cullen is the new Knight Commander. It's an odd, odd feeling, because in her mind 'Knight Commander' is Greagoir, only Greagoir, and the thought of anyone else in the position is just strange. Cullen seems to feel it too because he looks distinctly uncomfortable behind the big desk, tapping his fingers on the wood from nerves, oblivious to the fact he's doing it. There is supposed to be a meeting between he and Wynne but Wynne doesn't show up, and so Therrin goes to get her and brings her back.

When she returns there are three things on the desktop: a tarnished copper, a worn book, and a faded ribbon.

"Good morning," Cullen says, all business and formality when he looks at Wynne.

But Wynne goes still as ice, frozen in place with her eyes on the ribbon. "Where did you find that?"

It takes Cullen a second. "The ribbon? It was in Greagoir's desk. I didn't want to get rid of his personal effects, but I… I don't know what else to do with them. He had no family."

There's grief in the words, though it's already controlled, as though Cullen's taken it in and hidden it away to temper his soul in private.

"No." The word drops from Wynne's mouth in a murmur, barely audible. "He didn't." Wynne—practical, self-contained Wynne, who had faced legions of darkspawn unafraid, who had cupped Therrin's hands in her own to teach her to heal and been a pillar of light in the darkest places—stares at the ribbon like it's a puzzle she recognizes but doesn't quite understand. Something clicks into place in Therrin's mind.

She'd left the Tower a child, oblivious and seeing only the superficial, but she's woman enough now to recognize what mourning looks like when it's personal. The silent lament in Wynne's eyes is very, very personal. "If you want…" Therrin begins, and Wynne looks up, finally, First Enchanter again. "I can take care of this, you know. You did make me your second; you don't have to handle everything."

There's a moment of hesitation in which Wynne seems to freeze again and Therrin tries not to look at her directly—as though she could shout secrets from her eyes, give away things that aren't hers to give—and Wynne nods. "It may be for the best." She takes a breath, quiet and bracing before looking again at the ribbon. "May I take that?"

"Of course," Cullen says, faintly baffled but sliding it towards her anyway.

"Thank you." Wynne gives a nod to Therrin, a temporary passing of the torch, and she clutches the old ribbon in a hand as she leaves.

_Maker_. Wynne and… She'd had a son, hadn't she? And had to give him up, and with…? It's nearly too sad to think about. But there's a meeting she's supposed to attend and things to do, and so she sits down across from Cullen at the desk prepared for business and pushing it all away as a thought for later.

Cullen's more observant than most, though, and sensitive, which she forgets sometimes. He looks at the closed door, thinking. "Was it hers, do you think?" he asks.

The chair isn't made for comfort and she tells herself that's why she shifts, unsettled. "I don't know," she says at last, because it isn't going to go away just from not talking about it. "I think it may have been. It was old, though." Faded nearly colorless, just barely the ghost of green. If it had been hers, he must have had it for a long, long time.

And Wynne hadn't known, from the looks of things.

But if it _is_ true, the knowledge is never going to leave this room. Cullen is far too loyal to Greagoir to speak of it, and Therrin knows the weight and importance of silence, and so it settles into the beams and stone around them as the words fade from the air.

But Cullen is the Knight Commander and she's filling in for the First Enchanter, and there is a moment they look at each other, a little despairing. Therrin wonders vaguely if this is what children feel like when they dress up in their parents' clothes, playacting roles they're far too small to truly fill.

-oOo-

Leliana arrives in the spring.

_Early_ spring, granted—there is still frost on the windows some mornings and the Tower still creaks and groans from cold—but somehow Leliana sweeps in like a song on the wind, smelling of flowers and sweetness incarnate.

"Oh, Amell," she says at once, lilting and soft and drawing her arms around Therrin, laying a kiss on her temple. "I missed you so. It was so awful of you to run away. I worried for you."

"Sorry," Therrin says in response, not caring that they're being watched. The Chantry robe is soft against her cheek and wonderfully familiar. That ragged seam, right at the shoulder, Therrin had mended that herself in camp, and it's funny to think that as vain as Leliana can be she holds onto things with sentimental value forever. "I've been here all this time."

"You should have come with me," Leliana chastises gently, letting go. "The pilgrimage would have been good for you, I think, and the Holy Ashes do not contemplate themselves."

Therrin braces herself against a wall of memory. "I know. When I left the city I didn't feel very… holy."

Leliana's expression goes soft. "I know." And she really does, Therrin knows, even if she doesn't know the specifics, and it's an unexpected comfort to be in the presence of someone who really understands. Leliana lets the rebuke fall away in favor of beaming at Dog. "And look at you, handsome thing. You are very lucky, yes? Are you the only dog here? You must get everyone's leftovers."

Dog barks happily in response. Leliana is not as good with scraps as Oghren or Stephen but she can hum and scratch his belly for hours.

Leliana casts her eyes up, silent a moment as she looks around. Therrin realizes that the only other time she's seen the Tower was during the attack, with blood and corpses and abominations everywhere. "It is very lovely, isn't it?" Leliana says at last. "Your Tower. I didn't notice before."

"It is," Therrin agrees. "Can you stay?"

Leliana smiles prettily. "If I may. I have new stories to tell, if you'll let me, and I _have_ missed you."

Relief cracks somewhere in Therrin's mind, a little flood of feeling that rushes out warm. "Of course." With Dog between them they make their way slowly down the circle hallway, and just like that the long winter is over.


	15. The Heretic's Tale

It becomes apparent to Cullen very quickly that the dwarf was right about Leliana. She's friendly. _Very_ friendly, at least with Therrin. "You've got letters," Leliana says brightly, sweeping past Cullen's spot at the long table and handing them off. "Do you always get so many letters?"

"I write a lot of people," Therrin says absently, flipping through them quickly. "And this is only three. Once I got twelve."

Leliana settles into a chair at Therrin's elbow, leaning in close. "Who wrote you this time?"

"Um… Oghren, actually," Therrin says, sounding surprised. "I wonder what he wants. And this one's not for me; it's for Dagna. And… oh, Bann Teagan." She cracks open the seal on that one and reads, eyes flicking over the page.

"Oh, Bann Teagan," Leliana repeats teasingly. "What does he have to say?"

Therrin's brow is furrowed in mild puzzlement. "He's coming to the Tower in a couple of weeks."

When nothing else is forthcoming, Leliana cranes her neck to see the letter. "Do you often get letters from Redcliffe?"

"Sometimes. We've kept in touch. You'd be surprised at who all writes to me, though. Even Anora sent me a letter once, though I think she may have just been bored."

Leliana makes an amused noise, tracing the pattern of the tablecloth with a finger. "I suppose any woman would find a life locked away in a tower to be very boring." And Cullen likes Leliana well enough—Therrin seems to smile more since she came, and she's a heroine in her own right and a sister in the Chantry—but she keeps making subtle and not-so-subtle comments about Therrin not being at the Tower anymore, which seems odd.

The implication goes right over Therrin's head.  She only nods, half-listening, and glances up as Stephen skitters in cagily, clutching something behind his back. "These are for you," he says, and he darts forward and dumps a bedraggled handful of greenhouse flowers on the table in front of Leliana, looking sort of proud and embarrassed at once and scratching one ankle with the bottom of his other shoe.

Leliana beams immediately, gathering them up with both hands. "Oh, you sweet boy. I love them, thank you."

Stephen grins, quick and pleased, until he catches Therrin's frown. "You aren't supposed to pick flowers from the greenhouse," she points out. "They're grown for a reason; they aren't for picking whenever you feel like it."

His face falls a moment, but he produces a rather battered starflower from his pocket and holds it out like an offering. "But this one's for _you_."

There's a moment when Leliana laughs in surprise and Therrin looks torn between delivering a stern reprimand and giving in. She sighs a little and rubs a hand across her forehead. "Thank you, Stephen. It's pretty. But don't do it again without permission."

Stephen clambers up into her lap without invitation, all elbows and knees jutting from his clothes, and from her he crawls over to Leliana, who only looks surprised for a moment. "I won't," he promises, and then to Leliana, "Are you really a minstrel?"

She smiles. "I have been."

"Do you tell stories?"

Leliana smooths a curl from his eyes, amused. "I do. Do you like stories?"

"Yes." Stephen reaches under the table to pet Dog. "Therrin tells good ones."

"She does?" Leliana laughs a little.

"I try. They're all your stories anyway," she says, flipping a page. "They're the only ones I know."

Which Cullen knows isn't quite true, because mages have their own stories, things whispered between apprentices in the dark of night, things the templars overhear when they're pretending to be statues. But those stories are enough to chill the blood of grown men, and he wouldn't want Stephen to hear them.

"Would you like to hear a story?" Leliana shifts Stephen on her lap as he nods.

"Something with a happy ending," Therrin says, pushing her book away and looking tired. "I don't care what it is as long as someone's happy in the end."

There's a moment when Leliana hesitates, taken slightly aback, and then recovers, mouth quirking. "I kept you up too late, I think. You seem sleepy."

Which for Cullen is a reminder, and not entirely a comfortable one, that Leliana had laughed off the idea of staying in a guest room. And she is very friendly.

But Leliana's already thinking. "Something with a happy ending… let me see. What haven't you heard?" She considers it in silence, ruffling Stephen's curls absently with the other until her eyes fall on the ragged starflower and inspiration strikes. "I never told you the Wise Scholar and the Princess, did I?" she says at last, reaching over to tuck the flower behind Therrin's ear, oblivious to Cullen's minute jerk of surprise. "That will suit, I think. A happy ending, and adventure and romance and magic all at once. Here, then." And she slides Stephen from her lap, gently, and he climbs into the chair at Therrin's other side.

"Once upon a time there was a young princess," Leliana begins with a small, private smile. "And she was wise and kind and fair, but her kingdom was overthrown and her parents slain, and the new king's evil sorcerer locked the princess in a high tower with no doors and only one window, very high."

Stephen frowns. "Why didn't he just kill her?"

Leliana blinks. "What?"

"The princess." And Stephen curls up in his chair, resting his chin on his knees. "Instead of putting her in a tower."

Therrin gives Stephen a glance. "Don't interrupt, please." Thus chastened, Stephen looks abashed, though still faintly indignant. It's a valid point, Cullen thinks.

Leliana takes a breath and continues on anyway. "She was very lonely, with only the birds and clouds to keep her company, and for many years she wept. But the road by the tower was traveled by a great many people—on their way to market, or the chantry, or to the southern cities—and so her weeping was heard by travelers weary and hale, young and old, rich and poor and everything in between. One morning, on his way to chantry, a young scholar heard the princess weeping."

Stephen frowns. "What's a scholar?"

"An educated person," Leliana answers, beginning to look the littlest bit impatient before mischief glints in her eyes. "Like Amell. Or Teagan, even, I suppose."

Therrin looks at Leliana askance, but Leliana is already going on. "So the scholar didn't go to the chantry that morning. He went to a flower-seller in the market and brought back a seed of climbing starflower. And the scholar planted it at the very base of the tower, and watered it with a little water from his skin, and called up a greeting to the princess. And he spoke to no one else, and made no explanation. But news of the princess in the tower spread through all the lands, and noblemen and princes came, one after another to try to rescue her. But the sorcerer's magic was fearful and cunning, and the stones of the tower could not be climbed by any means."

Stephen opens his mouth to protest and clicks it closed, swallowing his ever-ready questions.

"One by one the princes turned away, giving up and returning to their own lands, and they left the princess without any hope of rescue. But every morning on his way to chantry, the wise young scholar stooped down on his way past, and watered the little starflower and called up a greeting to the princess. And he spoke to no one else, and made no explanation. Ten years passed in quiet, as the princess remained caged in the tower, and new princes came from new lands, and none of them were any more successful than the first, and one by one they turned away and left."

When Cullen had first heard the tale he'd been four, and it had been a young sister in the Chantry telling the story in a quiet voice between duties. She hadn't told it quite like this.

Leliana settles into the back of her chair. "Every morning the scholar watered the flower, and every day the starflower vine grew, climbing strong and sturdy and winding up to the princess' window. And then one morning before the sun came up, it was time. The sorcerer's magic would not allow the princess to come down the vine, so the scholar set aside his books and sword, called out a greeting to the princess, and began to climb, and the white flowers guided his way in the darkness. And at the top of the tower the vines were still thin and weak, and he would have fallen but the princess knew his voice when he cried out in fear, and she reached out the window and pulled him to safety. And they had loved before they had met, and so she had no fear of him and kissed him."

Stephen makes a face.

"You won't always feel so," Leliana smiles. "And anyway, no one's trying to kiss you now." He squirms a bit, sheepish, and Therrin smiles as Leliana continues. "Where was I? Ah. The sorcerer's magic was angered at the presence of the scholar and the very stones of the tower rallied to crush them, to cast them down broken to the street far below, but the scholar had learned of magic in his studies and taught the princess the secret of turning into birds."

"The scholar was a _mage_?" Stephen's eyes are wide.

"So is Amell," Leliana points out.

"But…"

Therrin puts an arm around Stephen's shoulders. "A question for later, I think. I want to hear what happens next."

Leliana looks very pleased, eyes gleaming. "As the tower collapsed around them, the wise scholar and the princess took to the air as a pair of hawks, winging their way to safety. With all he had learned the scholar helped the princess defeat the impostor king and overthrow the evil sorcerer, and the princess regained her throne and took the wise scholar as her king, and love, and they lived happily ever after. And this is why climbing starflower blooms white: to guide the way of lovers in dark places, and to teach us that patience and devotion must come before love can know its true worth."

Stephen considers. "Is that the end?"

"Yes."

He shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. "But… they were mages, weren't they? The princess, too. I thought mages weren't allowed to get married."

Leliana's eyebrows rush together in a frown. "Not allowed?" She makes a dissatisfied sound. "It may not be encouraged in your Circle, but it violates no law. Though it would take someone very brave to marry a mage, I think, and men like that are rare."

There's melancholy in Therrin's expression, and when she sees it Leliana strokes fingers through the other woman's hair, soothing. But Stephen isn't done. "But… why weren't they in a Circle? Where were the templars?"

Leliana considers. "There was a time before templars, little one. Most stories we pass down happened long ago. And mages have not always lived in Circles."

Stephen's eyebrows draw together, troubled. "But… the Sister says that mages brought sin into the world, and we have to at… ato…" he trails off, grasping for the word.

"Atone?"

He nods.

Leliana's smile is soft and bittersweet. "What do you know of sin?"

Stephen struggles for the right answer, worrying at his bottom lip. "It's bad things."

"Bad things like cruelty, yes? Like hurting people on purpose." Stephen's curls bob as he nods. "But what sin could you have done, so young? You have nothing for which to atone at all."

Cullen frowns, watching Stephen squirm in his chair, uncomfortable. "You're a sister, right? So you know about the Maker?"

"I was a lay sister in Lothering when I met Amell," Leliana says with a soft laugh. "I am not a sister proper. But if you have questions, I will try to answer them."

Stephen's forehead crinkles as he thinks. "Therrin says… she says that we're what the Maker makes us. So—" He trails off, terribly uncertain, and at Leliana's encouraging nod he finishes. "Why would the Maker make us bad?"

Cullen has heard the question before as well as the answers the Sisters had handed down, memorized word for word and passed from one generation to the next, and so he expects to hear a variation of these responses. He does not expect Leliana to lean close, settling an arm around the back of Therrin's chair to look more closely at Stephen and say, "I'm going to tell you a secret." As Stephen's eyes light up Leliana's smile becomes conspiratorial, sweet as honeyed sunlight. "The Maker loves you."

"_Sister_."

Cullen doesn't even know which of the templars spoke the protest, just that Leliana turns in her chair, indignant but not surprised. "What would you have me say, hmm? Shall I tell him that the Maker hates us and wishes us to be miserable, wallowing in fear and ignorance? That the Maker has turned away from us all and there's no point to life but crying endlessly into the dark, unheard and unanswered? I will say no such thing."

"Leliana." This from Therrin, quiet and warning, but Leliana spares her only a glance. "No. I will not be silent. I am not afraid." Her arms fold across her chest. "And I will not be chastised on faith by templars who have never been outside a Circle. I have lived in the world," she continues on, to Stephen. "And I have seen great evil, and great good, and I have prayed until I thought my heart would break with it. And then the Maker sent me Amell."

There is a moment—just a fraction of a second, though time seems to still and slow and so it seems longer—when Cullen looks to Therrin to find her watching him already, and she looks neither appalled nor surprised, and she does not deny it. The entire conversation seems to teeter on the edge of blasphemy, ready to fall.

"You know of virtues, yes?" Leliana says to Stephen, who nods. "You know of kindness, and love, and mercy. These are the best of ourselves, these are what the Maker loves, and these are what the Maker would have us live. He would not ask us to be other than what He made us. To deny ourselves what we are, to deny what we were made to be, that is true sin."

"Sister," Cullen protests.

"Believe as you like," Leliana says, leveling an untroubled look at him. "I will not cower before a lie when the truth is before us, waiting to set us free. And I will not let such awful things bring hurt to those I love."

She inclines her head and turns back to the table with an aplomb a queen would envy, tucking the starflower more securely behind Therrin's ear. "We are brave, you and I. We faced the darkspawn, and the Archdemon. We have touched the holiest thing in the world. We have not come so far only to fear truth when we see it."

Therrin only gives a quiet smile in response, eyes full of secrets and light.


	16. The Brave Man

There is no thunderstorm to herald Bann Teagan's arrival, no half-dozen uneasy guardsmen, no showdown in the hallway. Instead, Leliana paces the hall, wringing her hands like a nervous bride at the sound of footfalls on the stairs, and then Dog races by Cullen in a skittering of muscle and claws and canine joy.

And then Bann Teagan is there, ruffling Dog's ears and slipping something out of his pocket into the mabari's eager jaws. "Hello, lad." Dog wags his entire back end in response.

Leliana is beaming. "Bann Teagan."

"Leliana." He smiles, casting a quick glance around the inside of the Tower. "You look well."

"I am, thank you. And you? How was your journey?"

"Easy, thanks. Nothing remarkable." His eyes find Cullen, and he gives a nod of greeting. "Ser templar."

"Amell is still teaching," Leliana offers, only to be corrected when Therrin herself comes down the stairs.

"_Was_ teaching. Lecturing seven wiggly children on what it means to cultivate the stillness necessary to understand ice," Therrin laughs. "Ask me how much of that's going to stick."

"My lady," Bann Teagan says warmly, stepping forward to clasp her hands briefly. "It's good to see you."

"And you," Therrin smiles, giving his hands a quick squeeze before releasing them. "It's been too long. But what brings you to the Tower? Your letter wasn't very specific."

There's a second in which Teagan hesitates and Leliana steps in to fill the void, casting a mischievous glance at Therrin. "Amell, where are your manners? You can't ambush a man who's come all this way to see you as soon as he climbs up a thousand stairs. Later. For now—"

Therrin winces, faintly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

Teagan doesn't look offended. "Direct, is all," he offers, smiling a bit. "I'd actually hoped to get the chance to speak to you in private. Could we…?"

Something in Therrin's expression darkens for a brief second, and then it's gone. "I don't know if that's wise, considering. The rumor mill in the Circle is relentless," she explains. "But if there's something sensitive to discuss, Leliana and Knight Commander Cullen are both more than trustworthy. Will that do?"

Cullen isn't used to the title and really isn't used to Therrin saying it. Coming from her lips it sounds like distance and a formality new enough to be sharp at the edges. But somehow Leliana wrangles them all into a room that looks suspiciously well-prepared, and while Cullen should protest that he's got a pile of correspondence to respond to waiting on his desk, he sits when Leliana points out a chair, curiously unsettled at the oddness of it all and the Orlesian's fluttery enthusiasm.

There is wine, which Cullen doesn't drink. Stephen pokes his head in looking for Therrin and ends up playing with Dog at her knee.

Therrin likes Bann Teagan. It's odd to think of how shuttered she becomes sometimes around the other enchanters, distant and rigid as though she wears an invisible suit of armor to protect her from things he cannot see. She only seems to lower her guard for him and Stephen and Wynne, and sometimes Dagna. But she clearly likes Bann Teagan, and the invisible armor is nowhere to be found. She sips a little at the wine and makes conversation, and the words and smiles come warm and easy as she relates little scraps of funny stories, amusing things her students have done, and Cullen can feel himself relax as the hour wears on. As odd as Therrin's choice of companions seems sometimes, particularly in relation to each other—a heretic Orlesian, a lecherous sot of a dwarf, a bastard prince—he knows she doesn't place her faith in people lightly.

If she trusts Bann Teagan enough to like him, he's a good sort.

He's a thoughtful guest, at least, keeping the conversation flowing easily from one subject to another: the restoration of Redcliffe, nearly complete, Arl Eamon and Isolde expecting another child, to be born in summer, Lothering being slowly reclaimed, though the process is expected to take years. He offers congratulations both to Therrin for the position of Senior Enchanter and to Cullen for becoming Knight Commander, and though Cullen still does not feel comfortable in the role, he doesn't admit as much.

Leliana sits to the side and plays a lap-harp she seems to produce from nowhere, a measured and unobtrusive melody that feels like spring and hopeful flowers reaching up for an eager rain. After the conversation lulls a bit and Leliana tells a story of a mishap she ran into on her way from the Frostback Mountains, Therrin catches him looking at her and gives him one of those small, private smiles, then glances around the darkening room and lights the torches with a murmured spell, fire flaring into life and warmth.

"It could have been worse, I suppose," Leliana finishes wryly. "There could have been bells. I considered bringing some, you know."

"No," Therrin says with grim humor. "No bells."

It doesn't mean anything to Cullen, but Teagan's forehead is creased with amusement. "I heard you'd had a mishap with bells before, but Alistair was less than specific. May I ask what happened?"

There's an exchange of glances between the two women, a helpless sort of absurdity and Leliana says, "You tell it. It's your story."

"I'm not a storyteller," Therrin complains, running a fold of her robe through her fingers. "But. Before we made it to Redcliffe, Leliana had braided bells into the ends of my hair. And I don't know why, or where she found them—"

"A smith traded them," Leliana says. "His family were fleeing the darkspawn, and he needed food. But he would not accept charity and had almost nothing to trade for but the little bells."

"Oh." The thought seems to bring Therrin's amusement to a standstill. "I didn't know."

"As for why," Leliana continues, not letting Therrin get too somber, "we were being silly. Remember? Once upon a time, when you used to laugh and do things because they made you happy?"

Therrin's mouth twists in half-annoyed amusement. "I laugh." Leliana doesn't look convinced. "Anyway," Therrin continues, as though it's the most normal thing in the world, "the darkspawn attacked. We'd known they were around, but we didn't expect them to be in two separate groups, so when we were trying to take cover from one we ran into the other. And the second had an emissary."

"Ugly thing," Leliana mutters in distaste.

Therrin makes a face in agreement. "It figured out that I was the one healing the others, and that I sounded like bells, and so the darkspawn managed to herd me off from my friends." And it isn't funny, but she gives a laugh anyway. "And so I'm running like an idiot, trying not to get killed or lost, and normally I'd just have hidden, taken cover, skittered up a tree, even. I did that a few times. But this group was right on my heels the whole time; I never got the chance to hide." She takes a sip of wine and licks her lower lip. "But Sten—do you remember Sten?"

Cullen's never heard of Sten, but Teagan's nodding. "Giant, brooding Qunari? Hard to forget that one, I think."

"Well," Therrin says. "I'm running with what feels like the entire horde just barely behind me, and Sten bursts out of the brush and does this… this flying tackle thing and when I'm face-down in the dirt he sits on my back to shield me. And while he's fighting darkspawn with a sword in one hand and their corpses are falling all around us, he's got a dagger in the other hand slicing the bells from my hair."

"And you cried," Leliana teases lightly.

"Because I'd taken a mace to the side," Therrin retorts, "and had three broken ribs before Sten sat on me. It hurt. I wasn't crying over my hair."

Leliana only makes a noncommittal noise. "And then he lectured you all the way back to camp."

"Well," Therrin says again, grimacing into her wine. "Sten was good at that."

Bann Teagan looks bemused. "Lectured you over the bells?"

"Sten was of the opinion that Therrin should be having children instead of fighting," Leliana says lightly.

"Or running a shop, or farming. Anything but fighting, really," Therrin amends. "I don't know that he ever thought of me as a Warden until twenty seconds before I left for the Archdemon."

"He did," Leliana assures her. "And he always ate the cookies you brought him. He just didn't do it in front of you." A smile flicks across Therrin's mouth, just for a moment, and the room goes quiet.

Teagan shifts in his chair, setting aside his wineglass and looking faintly bemused. "I must say, I hadn't known I'd be having this conversation in front of an audience or I'd have tried to prepare something a bit more… stirring, I suppose. Entertaining. Therrin, I hope you know that I hold you in the absolute highest respect."

She looks faintly baffled, actually, but she nods a bit, setting her own glass aside. "I do. And I feel the same about you."

Teagan smiles. "That's good to hear. You made quite an impression on Redcliffe, you know. You're rather a local heroine." She smiles again, pleased, and something about Teagan's unwavering attention to Therrin makes Cullen's stomach start squirming. "I'd hoped to speak to you about this in a more… personal setting," Teagan admits with a rueful glance around the room at Cullen and Leliana and Dog and Stephen, who is cocking his head in confusion. "But this will do. Therrin…"

A grin is beginning at the corners of Leliana's mouth. Cullen starts to wonder where Teagan is going with this, and why he had to come all the way from Redcliffe to let her know that she's respected.

"You're one of the most remarkable people I've ever met," Teagan continues. "And you've done more for Redcliffe—for my family—than anyone could have hoped. More than anyone else would have done, I think." Teagan gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. "We spoke of this before, briefly, rather a long time ago. And of course, everything was different, then, but I was hoping, now that we know each other better, and now that there's not a Blight on and the world coming to an end…"

Therrin smiles a little at that, rueful, and Dog's tail is wagging in a stubby blur, and Leliana looks very much like she's trying not to jump up and down in her chair.

Teagan smiles. "Would you do me the honor of marrying me?"

The Tower is falling. Or at least that's what it feels like to Cullen, as though the floor's dropped out from beneath his feet, but no, that can't be right, they're all still sitting here, except that Leliana's beside herself.

Therrin hasn't so much as breathed. Stephen frowns. "But—"

"Hush, dear one, the nice man is trying to propose," Leliana whispers. "Amell?"

"Um," Therrin says at last, tucking hair behind her ear and sitting back in her chair, looking for all the world as though Teagan had proclaimed himself the queen of the dwarves.

Cullen's no better off. His chest is burning and he realizes he hasn't breathed, and when he does and it comes out all in a rush: "But she's a _mage_."

Therrin spares him only a glance, unsettled-looking and annoyed, but Leliana huffs a little in her seat. Teagan seems unconcerned, ready to laugh. "Is that why she came to Redcliffe and started casting spells? I wondered. But not a bad mage, certainly, are you?"

Therrin sighs in soft exasperation. She doesn't tell him _no, thank you, I don't want to get married so go away_, and that's what Cullen keeps waiting for and it keeps _not happening_. "No," Therrin manages finally, and just as Cullen's about to let out a breath of relief she answers the wrong question. "I don't think I'm a bad mage."

Bann Teagan does laugh a little, then. "Not going to turn me into a frog?"

"I wouldn't know how," Therrin protests, frowning. "Why do people always think that?"

"Forgive me," Teagan says immediately, leaning forward. "I don't mean to be flippant. I meant the proposal in all seriousness. I would consider it an honor."

"But…" Stephen looks up at Therrin, and then at Teagan, face screwed up in confusion. "You don't love her."

Leliana's tries to shush him again, and Cullen is wondering if this might have been covered in the unwritten templar handbook (chapter title: What to do if a nobleman proposes to your Senior Enchanter, and how to throw him off the top of the Tower without anyone noticing).

But Teagan's lost the amused look altogether and is watching Stephen with all seriousness. "I do quite care for Therrin. Though…" and he trails off a moment to look at Therrin, who is still not saying no, "I think such things would be far better suited to discuss in a private conversation. Don't you?"

After a perilously long moment, Therrin nods, looking a bit pale. Cullen wonders if as Knight Commander it falls under his duty to drag her out in the hallway and let her know that this is a terrible idea, perhaps the most terrible idea in the history of ideas, and she's still not saying no (or yes, he reminds himself hopefully, which is stupid because a not-yes is not a no).

Leliana goes still, looking at Therrin a moment. "My lord," she says sweetly after a moment, "I think you might have rendered Amell speechless. Congratulations." Therrin flushes abruptly, twisting her fingers in her robe and sneaking an uncertain glance at Cullen, and there's a world of implication in that look which helps him not at all because he's got no idea what it means.

"Perhaps," Leliana begins again, charmingly, "My lord, you must understand this might come as a surprise. Perhaps Amell could have a little time to consider your proposal? Surely you don't have to rush back to Redcliffe this moment."

"Of course," Teagan says at once. "I'm in no hurry to get back, and I know… well. I know you don't make decisions lightly. Perhaps, given the nature of the conversation, it might be permissible to speak in private later?"

Therrin nods, a little jerkily, flushing but still pale and looking a little mottled. "Yes, of course."

Leliana pushes gracefully to her feet. "Come, Amell. If you face the Archdemon all fire and lightning and faint at a sweet-worded marriage proposal I am going to laugh at you." And then with speed and alacrity no mere storyteller should possess, she takes Therrin by the hand and pulls her from the room.

Dog is pleased. The mabari sits up quite deliberately in front of Bann Teagan for a petting, and once he's satisfied he pushes to his massive feet and follows Therrin out, ignoring Cullen as though he doesn't matter at all anymore.

Bann Teagan looks thoughtful as he considers the Tower hall and gets to his feet. "Do you really suppose that's the first time anyone's asked?" he says at last with a glance at Cullen. "It seems unlikely. She's a hero of the realm and a lovely woman besides, and no one's ever plucked up the stuffing to propose? And for what, because she can cast spells?"

Cullen is quiet a moment before he realized there was a question in there, and he's supposed to answer. "Yes," he manages finally, standing. "I don't think anyone's asked, before."

Bann Teagan makes a vaguely disbelieving noise. "More the fools they, I suppose." And he smiles at Cullen—_smiles_, as though they were friends, or acquaintances, or even strangers who didn't want to punch each other in the face over and over—and Bann Teagan walks away.


	17. The Answered Question

Bathwater steams and swirls hot enough to sting at the backs of Therrin's knees, and she wonders idly if Leliana had meant to clean her or cook her. She isn't even dirty. Leliana just decided she still smelled like ice from lessons earlier, and that she couldn't smell like ice for Teagan, because…

Therrin isn't sure why.

But Leliana had all but plunked her bodily into the bathtub, and she's supposed to be scrubbing with the floral-smelling Orlesian soap and deciding if she wants to get married but she's not. Instead she's wiggling her toes in the water, chin propped on her knee, wondering what it would be like to be a fish.

"You're not _washing_," Leliana calls from the other side of the wall. "I can hear you." Therrin splashes a little at the water, but doesn't otherwise move. Leliana's voice comes again, musing. "Hmm. This dress might need hemming. Pretty or not, it'll be for nothing if you trip over your own skirts."

Therrin gnaws at her bottom lip a moment. "I still don't know why I can't just wear robes. He knows I'm a mage by now."

"You'll still want to wear something pretty. Feminine. It'll make you feel better, trust me. Besides, there's not too much difference between dresses and robes. I have… hmm. No, that won't do." Leliana lapses into silence, the quiet rustling of cloth the only sound.

Rainesfere. Therrin doesn't know where Rainesfere is. She knows how to heal three wounded people at once on a chaotic battlefield, slipping through pools of blood and ducking under deadly, sizzling magic, she knows the exact, dizzying taste a lightning spell leaves under her tongue, she knows what it is to patter through the Fade on tiny clawed mouse-feet, whiskers twitching every which way. But she doesn't know where Rainesfere is, and it bothers her. She has the absurd urge to retreat into the Tower like a turtle into its shell and simply not come out. "I still can't believe you knew and didn't tell me," Therrin complains, watching the ripples her breath makes on the bathwater.

"I did try to hint around it to see what you might think of the idea," Leliana chides gently. "You never seemed to pick up on it. And it's a good sign, a man asking the opinion of a woman's friend when courting her. It means he doesn't believe he already knows everything. And that will make everything much easier for you."

"_If_ I say yes," Therrin mutters, near inaudibly, glancing up when Leliana appears around the corner. "It's not a foregone conclusion, you know. I don't have to say yes just because he asks."

Leliana folds her arms across her chest, arching a brow. "Give me one good reason you shouldn't marry Bann Teagan."

Her students, she thinks, and dismisses that idea because any one of the Orlesian enchanters could do what she's doing. But Stephen… "My apprentice," she says at last. "He's already been abandoned once; I couldn't do it to him again."

The memory comes drifting back like an autumn wind, of Stephen's curls rimmed in sunlight as he'd clung to her, waist-deep in the water with Cullen. Thinking about Cullen doesn't exactly clarify matters any.

"Apprentices find new masters all the time, in all sorts of disciplines," Leliana points out, not unkindly. "And it's not as though you would never see him again. You can come visit the Tower. Try again."

Therrin thinks it over. "Therrin Guerrin sounds ridiculous," she manages at last, grumbling, but Leliana only laughs.

"Amell. I said a _good_ reason. And how much worse would have been if you'd married Alistair, mmm?" When Therrin doesn't answer, Leliana shakes her head once. "Be reasonable. He's a good man, yes?"

"Yes," Therrin admits.

"He's a nobleman," Leliana continues, "and he's asking you to marry him, which is very brave, you know. He's handsome. He's kind. You get along well, don't you? You've always been quite friendly."

"I know." Therrin drops her forehead to her knees a moment. "It's just… it's not something I'd ever have expected. It feels strange. What do _you_ think?" she asks Dog, looking up.

Dog's tongue lolls from his jaws happily.

"Would you want to go live with him? Leave the Tower?"

Dog's tail wags furiously. Rabbits to chase and open fields and lady-hounds and…

"That's a yes, then." She stretches out a dripping hand to scratch Dog behind his ear. "You're not unhappy at the Tower, are you?"

There's a pause as Dog considers. No, not unhappy. Fireplaces, and Stephen to open doors, and fetch in the big room, and his human always right there and not lost and not under attack and packs of mage-puppies who pet him and rub his belly and oh! the sword-priest's blanket…

"Blanket? Sword-pr… Cullen's blanket?" Dogs pants yes. Therrin tucks her knees closer. "I didn't know."

Leliana leans against the wall, quiet in consideration. "It's that templar, isn't it? He's the same one that was tortured before, wasn't he? The one we found, in that magic cage. Is that why you're so reluctant?"

Therrin opens her mouth to say _no_ and can't. "Part of it." _Most of it._

Leliana doesn't seem surprised in the slightest. "Do you care for him?"

Leliana had been here when the Tower was under attack, had walked right beside her into ruin and hadn't flinched at all when the great metal doors had been barred behind them. She'd been unshakeable in the face of demons, firing off shot after impossible shot, and she'd been right there when Cullen had made his tormented confession from inside the cage.

"Yes. I do. Very much." There's no point in being anything but honest, even to herself, and anyway Leliana probably already knows more than she says as it is. "For all the good it does anyone."

Leliana regards her a moment, thinking, before giving the smallest of sighs and pulling a towel from its shelf. "Come. Time to be out. I hadn't realized how long your hair had grown. What do they feed you?"

They don't talk about Cullen, then, but Therrin has no illusions that Leliana's done with the subject. Sure enough, once she's dutifully pulled on the silk dress she's been given and starts lacing up the bodice, Leliana pulls out a comb and drags it through the ends of Therrin's hair. "Grey suits you, I think," she says, gently tugging the teeth through a little snarl. "In silk, anyway."

"I'd thought there would be ruffles," Therrin admits, glad to be wrong. Or a frothy spill of lace or something. A confection of a dress like the ones Leliana had admired in the markets.

"Not for you." Behind her, Leliana sounds amused. "It would feel like a costume. Does this templar care for you, as well?"

Therrin hesitates, unsure of what to say, unsure of how much to say, and in the silence Leliana sighs. "Amell. Not again." Hands on her shoulders turn her around gently, firmly. "You did this before, remember? You can't keep on this way."

Alistair. She thinks this is Alistair all over again, Therrin realizes.

"You should be with a man who respects you," Leliana insists. "One who calls you 'my lady' and doesn't look at you like you're a dangerous dog that might need put down at any moment. One who you can have a life with. What sort of future can you have with a templar?"

"I—"

"You _can't_." Leliana's gaze is pitying and soft and inescapable, her hands still on Therrin's shoulders. "I don't see what there is for you here. You can study anywhere, you can practice magic in Rainesfere, but Teagan is offering you a life, a proper family with a husband and children and status and respect like an actual citizen. You won't ever have that in the Tower."

"Leliana, please." But just stopping her from saying it doesn't make it any less true or any less painful. It's easy enough not to think about where it might be going when it's just kisses hidden behind closed doors, or sitting together in companionable quiet on long, dark evenings. It's different altogether to be confronted with the flat realization that there's never going to be more than that, ever, because Cullen's a templar and she's a mage.

Therrin thinks of Wynne's expression when she'd seen that ribbon, a lifetime of silent regret and an ache beyond words. It isn't something she wants for herself. And yet… even in the best possible future, isn't that the way it's going? What else can there be, when it's all said and done?

"Think about it, would you?" Leliana says at last, sympathetic. "I just want you to be happy."

"I'm thinking," Therrin promises. "I am."

"Good." Leliana puts up a hand to brush a lock of hair from Therrin's eyes. "I'm glad. Oh—" And she traces a fingertip lightly across the mage's nose. "I didn't notice before. You've lost nearly all your freckles."

-oOo-

Teagan is more nervous in private, just slightly. It surprises her, a little. She can't think of why he'd propose so effortlessly in front of an audience and become less at ease once she's alone with him, tucked inside the same guest room Duncan had visited so briefly.

It feels much longer ago than it was.

But it's also a relief to know that she's not alone in feeling unsettled. He pours them both small glasses of wine that sparkle pale gold in the firelight, and as she sinks onto the couch beside him she wonders what in the world she's supposed to say.

_Thanks for asking me to marry you. _

_I like your hair._

_Where _is_ Rainesfere, anyway?_

"I have an apprentice," she says instead, barely aware of the words until they're tumbling from her lips. "Stephen, the little boy—you met him."

Bann Teagan nods. "He seems very curious. How old is he?"

Therrin cups her glass in her hand, feeling wound tight with nerves she can't seem to dispel. "Five. Or… he might be six. I don't know. He didn't know his birthday when he came to the Tower. But he isn't just an apprentice to me, anymore. I've grown fond of him."

"You could bring him with you," Teagan offers easily, as though it's the most normal thing in the world and hasn't just made her heart give an odd, sideways jerk in her chest. "You could train him at Rainesfere. There's more than enough room." Therrin can only do her best to gape and not think of Connor, but Teagan's had the same thought, it seems. "You're an actual teacher. And an accomplished mage. It isn't the same situation as Jowan and Connor by any stretch of the imagination. Is he a good student?"

Therrin is still reeling from an image that's stuck in her mind: of Stephen playing with Dog in a field, of having something close to what she knows a childhood should be like. "Yes," she manages finally. "He's a good student. The worst he ever did was explode a chicken."

A smile curls at his mouth. "An accident?"

"Apparently," Therrin answers, still a little numb. "It didn't taste any different."

Teagan laughs, a warm and genuine sound that makes something flutter in her belly, and she shifts the glass from hand to hand from lack of knowing what else to do.

"Therrin," he begins, turning slightly to look at her better. "I could hardly expect to just appear and suppose that you'd simply drop everything at once to leave. I know you have responsibilities, duties to see to and ends to tie up. If you need time, or if you're simply figuring out the most polite way to tell me to get out of your Tower…" He lets the sentence hang.

"No," she protests, not quite truthfully. "I'm not. And thank you." She takes a breath that rattles shaky in her chest, an unpleasant thought crawling from memory. "But I think you should know I might not be able to have children. Part of being a Grey Warden, I was told. And I don't know for certain… what?"

A shadow of bemusement had flicked across his face, just for a moment. "Alistair's wife—Queen Cecily—she's expecting. Leliana didn't tell you?"

It freezes her a moment. "No, she didn't." The surprise ought to hurt worse than it does, Therrin thinks, but instead of the ache she's expecting there's only a hollow, faraway sort of relief. As though this finishes something, and starts something else, and some part of her that's been waiting can finally breathe. "I'm… I'm glad."

Teagan is quiet a moment. "I thought it relevant, given the circumstances. It's a hopeful situation, I think."

Therrin nods, taking a deep breath. "I think so."

He smiles a little and takes a small drink of wine, glancing at her with amusement and something else that she's not… oh. "Even if you can't," he says, "no harm in trying, I suppose."

Nervousness? Oh, that thing that had fled before the hot prickling of a flush across the back of her neck, a twisting warmth flowering out through her veins. "No," she agrees, taking a sip of wine herself. It's soft and mild and perfect for unsettled nerves. "Did Leliana bring this?"

"She did. She's been very helpful."

"Leliana always is," Therrin agrees. "She always seems to know what's needed before anyone else."

Teagan smiles, at that. "To her, then, for being the mastermind behind half of this."

They toast Leliana, and after a second swallow of wine Therrin sets aside her glass deliberately, calm and clear-eyed as she's ever been.

-oOo-

They've been in there for ages, it seems. It's getting inappropriately late, and Cullen has no idea what they could be talking about in there, just that he can't hear anything. How long does it take to tell Teagan to go back to Redcliffe, anyway?

Nobles. They must love the sounds of their own voices. Leliana's been pacing the hallway for almost half an hour, aflutter with nerves and stopping outside the door from time to time. Cullen's not supposed to be out here—he's the Knight Commander, after all—but nerves had got the better of him and he hadn't known what else to do but take up a post down the hall. It's not as though anyone's going to tell him he's in the wrong place.

Finally—finally, and what in the world could have taken them so long?—the door opens and Therrin slips out, composed and quiet.

Leliana's eyes spark with curiosity. "Well?"

Teagan opens the door wider and follows Therrin out. "Well what? We had a wonderful conversation about the weather," he jests lightly.

Therrin glances at him wryly. "I've accepted," she tells Leliana, "We're getting married."

And he can't be hearing this right, he can't, because she was supposed to tell him no and Teagan was supposed to leave, but Leliana's made some feminine squealing noise and is hugging Therrin with an enthusiasm liable to crack the mage's bones.

There's a moment where Therrin's eyes find him, but she's got that shuttered look again, not pained as before but far, far away, as though she's already left the Tower behind forever, and she only spares him a glance over her shoulder as Leliana pulls her by the hand down the hall.

Frozen by shock and the weight of her words, all he can do is watch her go.

 

* * *

A/N: Bits of Dog's dialog reference Callalili's story "On Knights," which is a wonderful read if you haven't read it yet.


	18. The Open Sky

It's long past inappropriately late and Cullen still can't sleep. Not that he's tried. Not that he's done anything but pace down the endless circle hallways of the Tower, a shadow of hollow steel and stone.

The rooms are full of mages, templars, children sleeping in their beds and adults staying up late into the night, and everywhere there are quiet signs of life and activity. But for Cullen the Tower feels cold, as vacant as it was months ago and just as haunted.

For some reason it had been unthinkable that she would leave—she'd returned to the Tower, after all, of her own volition—but she's leaving with Teagan and this time he knows she isn't coming back. The knowledge makes something feel like it's devouring his heart from the inside out and hissing in his ears, a wordless accusation he doesn't understand and can't shake off. He only knows that this has gone wrong, all wrong, the fragile chain of wants he'd barely ever dared hope for broken beyond all repair.

His feet take him blindly back to his office, but he stands at the door and just blinks for a moment because Wynne is already there, seated in a chair looking pensive and faintly indignant at his intrusion. It makes no sense. This is his office. The crease between Wynne's brows eases after a moment. "Cullen."

He settles into the chair behind the desk, feeling the weight of his armor like a mountain on his shoulders and the toneless clanging of loss in his mind. "You're up late."

She doesn't dignify this with the expected response. She merely shifts in her chair, looking at him frankly. "It isn't the end of the world, you know."

"What?" _I don't know what you're talking about, I'm the Knight Commander and one mage leaving is hardly a cause for concern. _That's what he should say, probably, but he can't force out the words because he's not a liar.

"That's what I told Therrin when she had the look you're wearing at the moment. That it wasn't the end of the world. That there are other things in life more important than being in love."

"I—" He stops, because she's looking at him and she knows, somehow. He would have expected there to be more judgment in her expression, or condemnation. Not sympathy.

"She didn't take it very well," Wynne continues as though he hadn't spoken. "Of course, there was a kingdom hanging in the balance, then. Now the stakes are different."

Cullen tugs off his gauntlets numbly and leans on the desk, resting his head in his hands. He ought to sleep. Sleep might do something to ease this dead-weight feeling that keeps pulling him downward. "She'll be happier, won't she?" he asks dully, looking over at Wynne without hope. "She likes him. She'll get to…" He doesn't finish. He doesn't want to think about Therrin at Teagan's side, or curled close beside him at night, or making love to him and bearing his children and creating a family. Family is a strange, foreign idea, an elusive thing no mage or templar ever gets to keep.

Except now it's been offered on a silver platter.

Wynne considers a moment. "She'll be happier with a change," she says at last. "It's very wearying to be someone's secret. And Therrin isn't particularly skilled at hiding her feelings."

"We aren't…" he protests weakly, but her eyes are candid and perceptive.

"I know she spent the night with you after Greagoir passed away."

It could be an accusation. From anyone else, it would be. But Wynne doesn't look angry. "Nothing happened," Cullen insists dully.

"I didn't say it did," she says. "And in any case, I would hardly expect the pair of you to indulge in some frivolous tryst and leave it at that. You're not casual people. It would be easier if you were, I think." She sighs. "Though I can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect of her leaving."

Cullen picks absently at a gouge on the desk. "You could stop her, I suppose," he mutters, liking the prospect of her forced to stay even less than the prospect of her leaving. "You're her superior."

"Order her to stay? I gave her my blessing," Wynne says wryly. "Her life is her own. I can find another second, but for her this is a chance that'll likely never come again. Besides, my motivation isn't entirely unselfish. I have my hopes Therrin will go live out a good example for the world of what a mage can do with a little bit of trust and faith." She shrugs a bit. "But naturally, I'd have rather her done so from the Tower. I'm so ready to step down."

It jerks Cullen's attention around a little. "You were going to make Therrin First Enchanter?"

Wynne's mouth twists. "I was. I hadn't told her, and there's no point in it now. Greagoir grumbled about it for days when I told him." She shakes her head once. "But he came around. Though if he knew she was getting married to a nobleman, I suspect there would be more than grumbling to listen to. Not always an easy man to live with, your predecessor."

"Greagoir?" he asks bleakly. Apprehension prickles in the back of his mind that Greagoir would have been ashamed of him, but he confesses, "With everything that comes up, and every… with her, I keep trying to think what he would have done, and—"

Wynne makes an unhappy sound that isn't quite a laugh, curling her fingers around the edge of her chair. "What he would have done? Think of what he _did_ do." At his expression her lips press together in an impatient line. "He died. Alone. With all that was left of his youth and his heart lying forgotten in a drawer for the better part of thirty years when it never had to be that way. Is that what you want for yourself?"

Cullen sits back, too stunned to respond.

"There are always choices," Wynne goes on, but she's not looking at him anymore, she's staring at the desk with a stubborn set to her jaw as though she's arguing with someone who isn't there. "And there's almost never one right answer, one clear black-and-white solution. Life is rarely so uncomplicated."

Cullen swallows hard, uncertain. "Did you tell Therrin that, too?"

"No." Wynne huffs a small laugh. "At the time, it was that uncomplicated. Alistair had enough to deal with as it was without the kingdom turning on him because of Therrin. The sacrifice of two people's happiness for the greater good of Ferelden seemed a small price to pay. It doesn't mean I was happy to see their hearts broken. But in the end," she continues, settling back into her chair, "they're too alike. They're both idealists who know a great deal about war and very little about peace. There would have been no balance."

He shifts a fraction, uncomfortable. "And Teagan would… give her balance?"

"Peace, I think," Wynne answers contemplatively. "No one can fight forever, or alone. No one should have to."

Well, and that should be it, Cullen thinks, except if Wynne's trying to push him in a certain direction he's not certain which it is. "You want me to… I'm not sure what you're telling me to do," he admits.

"Me?" she sounds surprised. "I'm not telling you to do anything. We're just talking. And _stop_ that," she huffs, glancing with annoyance at his fingers tapping idly on the desk. "You look just like Greagoir when you do—" She frowns, trailing off. "When…"

Cullen looks up, expectant, but Wynne seems lost in thought, faraway and alarmed. When she does look at him, finally, it's as though she's never seen him before. "You were sixteen that year you came to the Tower, weren't you?" she asks as though it's not even a question.

"Yes." Not that that has anything to do with anything.

But Wynne has gone very still, and neither of them tries to fill the silence that stretches between them. "You were born in autumn," she says at last, and this time it's clearly not a question. "Greagoir mentioned once that you'd been born in autumn and given to the Chantry."

It's right, and there's something he should be getting from this, he knows, but he's exhausted and heartsick and wants nothing more than to…no. It doesn't matter what he wants. "Wynne?"

The First Enchanter looks as distressed as he's ever seen her, fists clenched in her robe and seeming to freeze in place. "You _idiot_," she mutters, dropping her gaze to her lap.

"I beg your pardon?" Cullen says, vaguely affronted.

She startles a little as though she'd forgotten he was here. "Not you." She looks at him, troubled and strangely brittle and searching for… he doesn't know what. "Would you give me a moment, please?"

It still doesn't clarify anything and this is still his office, but he's too tired to argue or press the issue, and he leaves her alone to collect herself in privacy.

-oOo-

It had been too much to hope for that Therrin would be in the library, though he doesn't know what he'd have said to her if he'd have found her here. He supposes he should be relieved. He thinks it should make it easier. It doesn't.

"Hello, Cullen."

This time he's the one that startles. He looks up to find her in the shadows, sitting cross-legged on top of one of the bookshelves, looking down at him hawkish and quiet. "What are you doing up there?"

She shrugs. "Thinking."

Words crowd at the tip of his tongue, his heart pouring over and clogging up his throat in a rush of things he needs to say right this instant. "Please get down from there," is all that comes out, and even that sounds strangled and inadequate. "You'll fall."

She considers him a moment in silence, and as soon as she opens her mouth to speak there comes the quiet clanking of armor as another templar finds them, looking agitated even helmed and anonymous. "Ser, I've got a situation—"

Cullen nods, impatient and frustrated and rankling under his armor. "Yes, just... just a moment."

When he looks up at Therrin she's not moving. She watches him, her face shadowed and grave. "Duty calls," she says, hoarse and humorless.

Cullen sighs and leaves to deal with a situation any other templar should have been able to deal with on their own (an inconsolable child's nightmare, honestly, as though one mage-child waking up crying in the night is going to damn them all), and of course by the time he makes it back to the library Therrin is gone.

-oOo-

Cullen falls asleep only half an hour before dawn, and by mid-morning he's already being summoned again by Marc standing in his doorway, nervous. Another situation. He's about to reprimand the other templar that surely one or two among them must have enough initiative to be able to deal with one thing all by themselves when Marc says, "It's Amell, ser," in a tone which may as well have said _it's a pride demon, ser._

Cullen dons his armor and shrugs off the weariness clinging to him like a viscous film, and goes.

Therrin is perched on a windowsill with fire glowing in her hands, a small crowd around her. Dagna leans curiously over Therrin's spell, Leliana sits in a chair at her side, toying with a lap-harp, and Stephen plays on the floor at Leliana's knee. Three other templars are already there, waiting and unsettled, and there's nearly a dozen of the Orlesian mages studiously avoiding looking at anyone else directly, loitering around interested to see if there'll be trouble. Therrin's eyes are blank as though she's been casting for a long time, but she still tilts her head at his approach, even unseeing. "Knight Commander."

"Senior Enchanter." He kicks himself immediately because it's wrong, she's not an Enchanter at all anymore. "What's going on?"

"Ser—" A templar begins, but Therrin cuts him off.

"I'm opening a window," she begins, amused. "Nothing is being harmed, or destroyed. I didn't even know these used to open until Leliana pointed out the hinges—did you?"

_They're sealed for a reason_, he wants to say, but what comes out is, "Why are you still here?"

The spell flickers a moment, dimming for a heartbeat's span of time before recovering. "There's a storm coming in. The lake's too high and rough for the boat to run today. We're stuck, for the moment."

The other templars look to him to do it—because none of them want to be the one to tell her _stop right there, mage, put your hands up and back away slowly_—and he resists the urge to rub his temples. "Is there a reason you're trying to open a window?"

She shifts slightly, balancing on the windowsill and he can see the bright line of metal glowing, the solder giving way in minute spaces. "Because I lived here for ages and never even knew that the windows were supposed to open. Because we've all been breathing the same dead air for a thousand years. Don't make that face," she scolds one of the templars without looking. He's helmed but Cullen can see him startle anyway, a tiny jerk of his posture at the surprise of being singled out. "You've been just as stuck here as we've been." She sounds stubborn.

_All in this together, whether we like it or not_. Cullen dearly wishes he'd been left to sleep. _Maker above, it would have been too easy for you to have been gone when I woke up, wouldn't it?_

He's still aware that there's the expectant, unanswered question of if he's going to stop her or not, but the thought of the last conversation they might ever have being an argument over a window is singularly unappealing. He sighs and tries to hold his heart still. "Don't damage the Tower," he says at last, and realizes it's a useless warning because she'd no more harm the place than he would. _It's my home_, she'd said, when she'd had nowhere else to go.

Cullen wishes he'd thought to wear a helm, taking up a post nearby out of habit and settling in for one final watch, and though she doesn't see him—can't see him, her eyes are wide and staring at nothing—she tilts her head as though to catch the sound of him, as though she knows the shape of him in the world by heart. Her expression softens, and he looks away.

"You're going to need a nap," Leliana insists mischievously, oblivious. "First never coming back to bed last night, and now this?" She nudges Therrin's leg with a shoulder. "You must be exhausted." It shouldn't make him uncomfortable, it shouldn't, but Therrin doesn't answer, which only seems to intrigue Leliana further. "Amell!"

Wonderful. Cullen doesn't want to hear this, and doesn't want to think about it or look at Therrin's growing half-grin. "I didn't say anything," Therrin retorts lightly. "You've jumped to conclusions all on your own."

Leliana's mouth purses in amused half-frustration. "What am I to think, then? You become betrothed, take off alone, and don't come back until morning. No one would blame you. He is a very handsome man, yes?"

"Leliana."

"Athletic," she barrels on stubbornly, still teasing. "Thoughtful. Playful. These are good qualities in a man."

"Who are we discussing?" Bann Teagan asks curiously from the doorway, at which Leliana gives a distinctly unmusical squeak and wheels around in her chair, aghast.

Therrin only chuckles low in her throat as Teagan comes in with the First Enchanter and Cullen's day becomes that much worse.

"You knew!" Leliana accuses, cheeks hot. "You could have told me."

"I tried," Therrin says blandly. "I gave hints. And I thought lay sisters of the Chantry were supposed to be good listeners."

Leliana looks more than a little mortified, but Teagan only looks at her with a faint frown on his face. "Lay sister? I'd thought… you hadn't mentioned that in your letters."

For once, Leliana has no response.

Wynne looks puzzled, considering Therrin's spell. "Is there a reason you're playing forge in the Tower?"

Therrin blinks as though it's a conscious effort to keep her eyes from drying out. "I'm trying to open a window."

Cullen expects there to be some protest—a stern _you stop that right now, young lady_, or _couldn't you have consulted me_—something, anything. But Wynne only says, "I see," and lapses into silence, watching.

"We were…" Leliana begins, stumbling only a little and struggling not to flush, looking at everything but Bann Teagan. "I was just saying how much I love to watch Amell cast spells. Like a songbird returned to the air, free and happy."

Therrin sounds far away. "A songbird wouldn't survive the Fade."

"A hawk, then," Leliana allows, faintly irritated but recovering. "A bright hawk soaring through a dark and unknown sky."

"The Fade isn't dark."

"Amell," chides Leliana, the littlest bit frustrated. "You have to try a little. Have you no poetry in your soul at all?"

"I named my dog 'Dog.' What were you expecting?"

Leliana's mouth clicks closed, a grudging smile tugging at one corner. "You're terrible." But after a moment she takes up the lap-harp again, plucking out a quiet waltz that makes Therrin's spell seem to burn brighter. "Do mages write poetry?" she asks at last. "One would think there would have been those who'd have become minstrels if they'd not had any magic. But I don't think I've ever heard any stories passed down just through mages."

"We've got stories," Therrin says. "There's one about the little mage girl who wouldn't eat her peas and got possessed by a demon and killed by templars. Though I think I might just have ruined the ending."

Wynne's laugh is quiet. "Two sentences twenty years ago with your poor teacher frustrated beyond all sense or reason do not constitute a story, Therrin." And when Therrin says nothing, she folds her arms across her chest, a faintly wry smile on her face. "Besides. You ate your peas, after that."

"I did not," Therrin retorts faintly. "Jowan ate them for me so I wouldn't get in trouble."

At that, Cullen can feel the Veil straining at itself, the rough edge of Therrin's magic dragging through grief as her concentration falters, wilder and less controlled than it ought to be. Cullen frowns, uncomfortable, and almost tells her to stop the spell, but Leliana shifts her hands on the harp, playing a lullaby that soothes it all, smoothing down the disturbance and sharpening Therrin's focus.

Teagan's frowning, darting an uncertain glance at Therrin. "Jowan?"

Leliana shakes her head in silent warning, but it's enough to make Therrin's magic distressed again. The fire in her hands spits, throwing out sparks. "Mind yourself," Wynne says, and Therrin scrambles to regain her lost concentration and salvage the spell.

Dagna glances up at Therrin, unhappy. "I still can't believe you're leaving. You and Wynne are the only ones who talk to me like I belong here." When Therrin doesn't respond, Dagna examines the spell more closely. "You're almost done. I didn't think it would take this long."

Therrin looks a bit ragged. "Neither did I."

It's only a couple minutes more—after Leliana sends Stephen scurrying to the kitchens for something to drink, and after Cullen angles himself closer because he's not entirely sure that window isn't going to open outward and send Therrin tumbling down when it gives way—and they have it. Dagna pushes carefully at the window in its newly-liberated frame, still glowing dully red.

When it swings open, a cold rush of air billows in and flutters the papers on the table, and for the first time in the Maker only knows how long the Tower seems to breathe. "Oh!" Leliana exclaims softly, leaning out with Teagan to look as a small flock of mages crowds around to see. "The view is lovely from up here!"

But Cullen isn't looking out at the lake or sky. He catches Therrin's shoulders as she stumbles back into him blindly, swaying and drained from the sustained effort. "I've got you," he mutters, softly enough only she can hear. Her breath hitches a moment under his hands, a small noise of distress in her throat before Stephen returns, balancing a full mug carefully in both hands and beaming at them both. "You did it!"

"It took long enough, didn't it?" Therrin says with forced lightness, taking the mug and drinking and then abruptly trying not to gag. "You put the honey in yourself, didn't you?"

Stephen grins.

Wynne looks pleased and ever-so-faintly smug, Cullen thinks, but he doesn't know why. "That was… interesting. Here," she says to Therrin, and offers up a bottle of potion that seems to glow faintly even in the shade.

Therrin drains the bottle in three swallows, unquestioning. "We could have done that ages ago," she complains with a glance at the window, breathing the cool shock of spring air. "Why didn't we?"

Wynne sighs the smallest bit, looking at the window contemplatively. "I'm sure we had our reasons."

But whatever reasons there were they seem lost in the flow of cool, damp air, and wind that smells of lake and sun and approaching storms. Mages jumping to their deaths, Cullen reminds himself, though it seems odd now because none of them are jumping. They cluster around the window instead, exclaiming over the novelty of a breeze.

"How many windows are there in the Tower?" Therrin asks, barely above a whisper as she watches the other mages.

Cullen shifts, uncomfortable. "I'm not sure."

She leans against the wall, looking suddenly ill. Too spent, Cullen thinks, with a twinge of unease. "It seems like the sort of thing someone ought to know."

_Stay and count them, then, but don't leave_, he wants to say, and doesn't.

The mages aren't the only ones unused to the window being open, though. As Leliana bends to pick up her harp there's a yellow streak of feathers that darts inside the open frame, a flutter of color and a chirp as a bird finds itself unexpectedly inside the Tower, beating its wings in startled displacement. And then, something Cullen's never seen before: an entire group of grown mages, laughing at the accidental game, trying to catch the bird to get it back out as it flutters from corner to corner, just out of reach, winging its way between bodies and shelves and tables in a mad rush of motion. Even Therrin smiles and joins in, reaching out for the elusive bird as it races away from her hands.

"Amell, stop," Leliana orders, amused. "You're frightening the poor thing terribly."

"I'm just trying to catch it."

But the bird is quick and won't be caught, distressed and swooping in terror from one corner of the room to the other until Leliana plays a few notes on the harp and begins to hum an odd, quiet tune that makes the mages fall still.

The yellow bird settles onto the back of a chair, and no one moves as Leliana hums ever more softly and scoops it gently into her hands, releasing it out the window and watching as it disappears. Stephen grins up at her, looking terribly impressed. "That was awesome."

Leliana smiles. "Thank you."

"Like out of a story!"

Leliana gives a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. "You're too kind."

"It _was_ quite something," Bann Teagan says thoughtfully, and Leliana flushes a little under his regard.

"It was only a bird."

But Teagan's watching Leliana, who is busy trying not to smile, and Therrin's watching them both, the invisible armor firmly back in place and no expression on her face at all.


	19. The Scholar Ascendant

Stephen likes Teagan. It's stupid to be disgruntled at the fact of a little boy's fickle interests but it rankles anyway: the brightness of his eyes, the babbling curiosity of his questions as he props his chin in his hands and talks to Teagan at the great long table, his feet kicking at the rungs of the chair.

Teagan humors him. They talk of swords and horses and other things Cullen barely pays attention to. He watches over the room still as a statue and just as unfeeling in case anyone gets any funny ideas about the newly opened window. On the other side of the room is Therrin, curled up with Leliana in a chair meant for one, a conversation far too quiet for Cullen to hear held between the two women like a candle-flame protected by the shelter of their bodies. Neither of them look happy. The ill, drawn look is back on Therrin's face, but when she glances over and finds him already looking she turns away from him. Leliana looks troubled, and when she glances over at Cullen her expression could hardly be less friendly.

What he's supposed to make of it, Cullen doesn't know. After a while Leliana gets up to sit with Stephen, spinning out tales at the boy's request. This only leads to stories of her travels with Therrin and Wynne and Alistair, and Teagan smiles down at Stephen's blond head and says something about how he reminds him of Alistair a little, at that age, and Leliana smiles back, stroking her fingers through Stephen's unruly curls. Sometime after Leliana agrees to show Stephen her bow Therrin falls into an uneasy sleep, shifting restlessly in the chair, and Cullen wonders if he ought to try and move her somewhere more comfortable.

No. He's not supposed to care. Let Teagan worry about it, he thinks, only Teagan isn't looking. He's watching Leliana curve her fingers over Stephen's as she shows him the way to hold the bow. Stephen grins, pleased, and only beams brighter when Teagan tells him that if Therrin allows it, he can have his own bow once they get to Rainesfere.

It's only a little bittersweet that Stephen's come such a long way from the boy he'd been months before, cringing in the lake water, clinging to Cullen's arms tightly in fear and hanging desperately on Therrin's every word. But Cullen shouldn't think about that, either. Soon, Stephen will be gone, and Therrin with him, and Cullen's duty will still be here at the Tower.

It should make it easier. Duty shouldn't feel so crushingly heavy. It isn't, he tells himself. This is just fatigue.

The Tower stood before her, it'll stand long after she's gone. The thought feels hollow. Cullen grits his teeth and does his best to be more of a statue than a man, untouched by the conversations that ebb and flow around him, removed from it all by the purity of his concentration. Only when one of the mages gets up to close the window does his focus sharpen into something immediate, but there's nothing suspicious going on. It's merely the storm to the north rumbling closer, the wind beginning to hiss across the windows in their panes, whirling around the Tower with the promise of lightning.

If he hadn't been concentrating so hard, he might have missed it, or might have hesitated. Therrin makes a high, pained noise in her sleep and Dog gives a growl of alarm, and Cullen feels the Veil split open in a sickening rush that crawls over his skin and claws desperately at his insides. Therrin makes a sound that isn't quite human as she jerks awake and falls to the floor and with no more warning than that there are shades in the Tower, three of them winding close over her with inhumanly long arms open and grasping as she hesitates a second before reaching for a spell.

Faster than thought the creature has her pulled upright like a human shield and trapped against it, claws at her belly and neck, her eyes wide with horror and the heavy force of enthrallment.

The room explodes into motion. Cullen has his sword in his hands without remembering when he drew it, Dog lunges for a shade with a horrible snarl, the other mages are shouting in horror and fear and stampeding away and where are the other templars? Above the noise he can hear Stephen screaming and Cullen pushes Teagan out of the way from where he's frozen in place, horrified and unarmed, and why is Cullen the only one in the room with a _weapon?_

An arrow flies past him and he realizes he's not; Leliana has snatched up her quiver and is running, darting for a better position in a flurry of red hair and gasped-out prayers. The first demon falls at a thrust of Cullen's blade, screeching as it disintegrates into vile spatters, and he turns to the next, sword raised and ready, and he freezes.

It clamors at his mind _there are demons in the Tower_ and he shouldn't hesitate, but shades are wickedly intelligent and the one with Therrin clutched against it is close, too close, using her body for a shield and he can't swing without  hitting her. Therrin twists in its grip as the demon siphons off her will and power. He should take it out anyway, he knows it, but he can't bring himself to swing yet. From the side Cullen barely sees Leliana slide into place before she whips an arrow into her bow, the Chant falling from her lips in prayer as she shoots.

It's not a fatal wound but the shade shrieks in pain, writhing away from the enchanted arrow. It's enough to make it release Therrin, who hits the floor with a muffled cry. On the other side of the room the other shade has found Stephen and is slithering his way, and Cullen hesitates, not knowing which demon to fell first.

But Dog tackles the shade hunting Stephen and drags it down, jaws clamped around one grotesque arm as Leliana looses another arrow and it strikes the demon hard enough to make it stagger toward Teagan unsteadily. Cullen can feel a vast sucking sensation as the Veil strains, and Dog leaps out of the way as Therrin draws deep into a well of power and unleashes it. Lightning crackles in thick ropes toward the two wounded demons, flickering ghastly blue light along their limbs as they spasm and shriek and die.

Thunder in miniature rumbles through the room immediately, an aftershock of the spell. Outside, lightning crackles and a growl of louder thunder batters at the Tower, the windows rattling in their panes as if in answer. In the aftermath of the chaos, everything goes quiet.

It's a sickening moment of clarity, waiting for further attack. Leliana still holds her bow at the ready as Stephen crawls toward her, crying in fear. Therrin hasn't risen from her hands and knees, her bloody fingernails digging into the stone as Cullen stands above her with sword drawn and ready.

It doesn't last—nothing lasts forever, no matter how horrible—and there's a sudden clanking of armor as templars rush through the doorway. Where were they? Cullen demands silently; so much for constant vigilance. But it was all too sudden, they had to have heard, they'd have come as soon as they could. And Therrin—who'd brought demons to the Tower (_sin to Heaven, doom to the world_—no, not her, he shakes the thought away) Therrin is bloody but shades don't bleed. Her robe is torn from the demon's claws; the blood is her own.

Cullen is barking orders only half-aware, _you, go get the First Enchanter, and you two, check the apprentice halls and the library and make sure no one else is being attacked, and you, yes you, take four men and do a sweep of the halls, this might not be over—_

The templars listen, sharp and obedient, but they're also looking at Therrin as though they expect her to lead an insurrection on the spot, to mumble a spell and kill them all, and she brought demons to the Tower and isn't dead.

"Don't cast anything else," Cullen warns, deeply uneasy, waiting for the Veil to be compromised the slightest bit. Therrin nods dully.

The templars leave immediately to follow orders and Teagan finally shakes himself, uncertain but walking towards Therrin anyway with a hand outstretched to help her to her feet. "Therrin."

"Don't," she growls through gritted teeth, still bristling with magic and shaking with the weight of effort. Around her, the Veil seems ready to unravel at any moment. "Don't touch me."

Teagan freezes. When Therrin glances up at him they share a glance, sick with reality, and she looks away from him and slumps in place. And then thank the Maker and Andraste both Wynne is there, brushing past everyone in a rustle of robes, banishing the shadows by the calm force of her presence.

A quick pair of spells heal the long slices where the demon's claws had raked across Therrin's side and down her arm. "Shades," Wynne declares quietly, examining her handiwork. "No telling how long they might have been lurking, waiting for an opening. They could have been lying in wait for months."

"I thought," Therrin begins, voice strained, "I thought when I first came back I felt something, but that was months ago and—"

"No. Rest easy," Wynne says. "You're all right."

"I knew I should have woken you," Leliana laments softly, Stephen's head still tucked into the crook of her neck. "I knew you weren't supposed to fall asleep upset."

Wynne peers at Therrin, eyebrow raised in ready dissatisfaction. "Why would you have been upset?"

"I'm fine, Wynne," Therrin says, voice hoarse.

Wynne purses her mouth, unconvinced. "I think your definition of fine needs revision. Are you sure you're quite able to—"

"I'm _fine_," she insists again, glancing up, eyes red-rimmed but dry. "Teagan, we need to talk." Her voice breaks on the last word, raw and unhappy, and while Teagan himself looks distinctly less than overjoyed at the prospect he nods. When she lurches unsteadily to her feet he follows her away, into the hall and out of sight.

In the hours after that the Tower seems to settle back down, and while every templar in every room is on high alert, there are no more attacks. Alone in his room, Cullen pulls out of his armor and slumps into bed, raking hands through his hair and trying not to think. If he thinks, he's going to see it again, flashing vivid behind his eyes: the demon, and Therrin arched against it, and himself hesitating with his sword drawn.

More than that, a lifetime of suffering in a cage, demons and blood mages crawling through his brain, slithering down through his thoughts. He has a memory just like this, eerily the same, of a demon holding her as his hand on his sword had gone numb. He hadn't struck. When she'd opened her eyes it was Therrin but not Therrin, a walking puppet of flesh with a demon inside. As he'd been frozen in agony she had sidled close and kissed him, her lips warm and sweet until the moment she'd transformed into a monster. All pretense of sweetness had died as he'd fallen, the wicked laughter of the demon the only sound left as he'd drowned in misery and lies.

Something scratches at his door.

He almost takes up his sword out of reflex, all his senses stretched taut and thin. When opens the door he finds Dog on the other side, looking miserable. "Dog," he manages, baffled and looking for Therrin. She isn't there.

My human needs—Dog begins, but Cullen doesn't catch what comes next. "What?"

Dog is uncomfortable, near to whining. My human is still fighting.

That's alarming enough to make Cullen reach for his sword, and he should be armored, but there might not be time. "Where?" Dog turns to lead the way and Cullen follows, strapping his sword on as he runs down the hall, hoping that fighting doesn't mean what he's afraid it does.

It doesn't. When he finds Therrin, she's alone in the guest room, red-eyed and looking up dully at his entrance. "What do you want?"

"Dog said," he begins, and stops because it sounds odd. "You're fighting?"

Therrin's mouth twists. "I was praying."

Her arms are tight around her, protective, and she looks anything but pious or peaceful. "Praying?" Wynne had said it, months ago: _she'll grind her teeth and shout at the sky and tear her hair out_.

Cullen doesn't have any idea how a mage would pray.

"You really shouldn't be here," she says thickly, turning away. "I can't imagine I'd be good company at the moment."

Dog has already slunk away, though Cullen doesn't know to where, and in the interest of privacy he shuts the door behind him. The windows seem to shudder in place. She tosses an annoyed glance over her shoulder and paces, feet scuffing on the floor as she broods. Finally, she says, tight and irritated, "You're not leaving?"

He leans against the wall, watching. The Veil still feels unsettled but not nearly so ragged as before, as though Therrin's dragging fingers through it and leaving ripples, disturbing the surface of some vast, unseen pond. "Do you want me to leave?"

Therrin laughs, a bitter sound. "Does it matter what I want?"

Cullen doesn't have an answer for that and in any case, she doesn't seem to expect one. She turns for another lap of the room, jumping minutely at the crack of lightning outside. "I just wanted… just a chance," she says, miserable. "Just a chance to be normal. To do something, to… to _have_ something, real and…" Whatever would have come next dies unspoken, her fingers curling into her own arms in unhappiness.

He watches wordlessly as she sinks onto the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. "And now twice," she says wearily. "Twice it all gets shot to pieces. Because of magic." The word gets gritted out with sharp edges, unlike anything he's ever heard her say at all. "You should leave, Cullen," she warns at last, curled around her own unhappiness. "You don't want to be here."

Which is not _I don't want you here_, but still… He shifts, uneasily. "Did Teagan hurt you?"

"What, did he break the engagement, you mean? No. He didn't have to," she answers, voice gone dull. "It was never going to work. I told him as much. He didn't argue." She picks idly at a thread on her robe, mouth pursed. "Demons do terrible things to people, Cullen. Well," she huffs a humorless laugh. "You know that better than anyone."

He thinks it over in silence. The engagement's broken, which means she's not leaving, which should make him happy but doesn't. She's got her fingers curled to fists, head ducked away and eyes red and raw, and it's worse somehow because the Tower's a cage again, a prison instead of safety and home. "He knew you were a mage, though," he protests, because there's got to be some way to fix this and make everyone see reason.

Therrin grimaces. "He thought he did. It seems pretty clear now he didn't have any idea what that might mean." Cullen thinks back on Teagan's frozen expression of horror and silently agrees. Therrin jerks to her feet to pace again, shoulders shifting under her robes as though her skin doesn't fit. "I didn't want him to see that. More than I didn't want that to happen, I didn't want him to see that." She stops abruptly, sounding on the verge of tears. "I just… Cullen, I _hate_ this."

When he doesn't have an answer she spins to face him, scowling. "Why didn't you put me down?"

Cullen blinks, stunned and appalled and sure he's misheard. But no, she's glaring at him, jaw set. "What?"

"Earlier," she clarifies angrily. "With the demons. You could have." His throat's gone dry, all answers fleeing in the sound of his own pulse drumming in his ears. "You were supposed to," she presses, taking a step closer. "Weren't you?"

No, he wants to say, but it's not entirely true. If Greagoir had been here he would have.

(Greagoir died alone, his heart in a drawer, and Cullen found him and doesn't want to share his fate, but—)

"Why didn't you tell me about Teagan?" he demands instead of answering, vaguely aware that he's only turning the conversation and that at some point he'll have to face this, but not now. "You never said anything about… about him, or him courting you, or being so taken with him you would—what's funny?"

She's laughing but there's nothing amused about it. "I wasn't taken with him. I wasn't in love with him. He's my friend." She grimaces. "_Was_ my friend. I like him and I would have tried my hardest to be a good wife and learn to love him. But it doesn't matter." She grimaces, a rictus of misery and anger. "None of it matters. The only thing that matters is that I'm a mage—above all things, beyond any hope, and no matter what—"

"But I know you're a mage," he interrupts, an alien irritation prickling under his shirt. "I've known you how many years, by now, you don't have to tell me like I don't know."

Therrin's eyes are narrowed. "And so what? It still doesn't matter."

"It doesn't…" he repeats numbly, half-incredulous. "It matters because it's who you are." She all but sneers. "I know who you are," he says, each word feeling heavy in his mouth. "I do. I know what it means; I know what you can do. And I still… I love you. I thought that counted for something."

The brittle, angry expression falls from Therrin's face at once. "What?"

You can't act surprised, you were there, he wants to say, there for everything, because I wouldn't have dived in after you without a second thought if I hadn't loved you, and I wouldn't have risked my entire world for the little bit we've managed to carve out for ourselves if I hadn't loved you. "I love you," he says again, and Maker forgive him. _Virtues_, the memory of Leliana's declaration whispers at his mind. _Love, and mercy, and kindness_. _These are the best of ourselves, these are what the Maker loves. _For a wild moment he prays that she's right, because otherwise they're all damned.

But Therrin looks near to tears. "You… you were just… I was going to leave." She looks indignant, but it's different, it's not the awful, poisonous kind of anger anymore. "You weren't going to say anything, were you?"

His breath feels tight in his chest. "I thought you'd be happier if I didn't."

Therrin raises her hand to her mouth, considering, glancing up at him to search his face. "I'd have tried," she says finally, ashen. "But it probably would have come out eventually, the worst of what I am. Better today than five years from now, with a lot more at stake." She frowns at him, as though she doesn't quite believe he's real. "You're serious, aren't you?"

He blinks a moment, because when has he not been serious, and then decides half-despairing that any answer he could give would be open to doubt. He gives up on words and closes the distance, kissing her instead.

Therrin hesitates, just for a moment, and then her arms come around his neck as she stretches against him, a wordless noise in her throat that gets lost against his mouth as he deepens the kiss, pulling her in closer, closer, a hand sliding around her waist. She pulls away, little inches of distance without letting go of him. "I love you, too," she says, rough and honest, searching his eyes. "For what it's worth. I didn't think…" And what she didn't think he doesn't know, but she gives her head the smallest of shakes and falls quiet, swaying into him as though they make their own gravity, her mouth coming back to his, soft and sweet.

_I love you. _He'd never thought to hear it—dreamed it, yes, _wanted_ it, yes—but actually hearing it, having her here in his arms and saying it is almost too wondrous to be real. She arches up against him as his hands find her hips of their own volition, and her body is warm and soft against his and he's fleetingly grateful he isn't armored. He rocks back a moment, unsteady and pulling her with him, a small sound of encouragement in her chest, her lips becoming more insistent as his fingers brush against the fastenings to her robes.

A shock of uncertainty sears its way up his spine, leaving doubt raw and exposed in his mind because he'd seen this on his hands and knees in the cage, with a demon in his mind toying with him like a cat with a mouse. If it's too good to be true… there were demons in the Tower, just hours before, he thinks, and it all begins to unravel in his mind. His breath goes unsteady and when he pulls away her cheeks are flushed but she doesn't look surprised. "Cullen—"

"I don't—" he begins at nearly the same time, trying not to stumble backwards. But he doesn't know what to say and he hasn't let go, and doesn't want to tell her _you're a demon, I can't trust my eyes or my mouth or my hands._

He'd been tricked before, over and over, and if this is a trick, then it's the most horrible… he can't think it, can't bear to believe that this could be twisted dark and ugly. After a moment's hesitation she lets go, tugging up her torn sleeve so he can see her arm. "It's me," she tells him. He stares desperately at the red stripes on her skin still bright from where the demon had hurt her, for a moment unable to do anything but look.

A demon had held her against her will, and sank its claws into her flesh and mind, and she hadn't broken. "I know." Therrin looks troubled and he remembers abruptly that of course she knows. She was there. He'd seen her on the other side of his cage, horrified and shaking. "We can go, if you need to," she says quietly, and he knows what she's offering: an easy exit, a blameless way out.

A choice. His heart stops threatening to leap from his chest at the thought and his mind slows down. "No," he answers, a little hoarse and surprising himself more than her. "I don't want to go."

After that it all begins to flow together, just as well as before. He bends again to kiss her and she meets him halfway, opening her mouth below him and cupping his face in her hands, tucked close against his body as he buries a hand into her hair. And this is familiar, at least, for a little while—the feel of her lips on his, the catch of her breath as he slides his hands down her back, the way her eyes flutter closed—but this time it's more than that, pulsing insistent at the back of his brain and down, lower. Her mouth is still soft, undemanding, but one of her hands finds its way to the small of his back, pushing up under his shirt to trail tentative, feather-light touches along his skin in a shock of contact that's only surprising in its newness. He shifts, hardly aware that he's falling in deeper. His hands tug at the edges of her robes, seeking the warmth of her skin in return, decision made.

Blindly, she reaches back with one hand and fumbles for the door, sliding the lock home with a quiet click that's nearly drowned in the rushing sound of the rain at the windows. There's an inexpressible tenderness in her hands, soft and patient and he thinks, dimly, that this is holding back. There's supposed to be urgency and fever and passion, something primal, an unstoppable wave of desire to get carried away upon and never look back. Instead they're careful with each other, every move deliberate. Crushing a flicker of uncertainty, he reaches for the clasp to her robes but can't manage to get it open. In a moment her fingers are there, pulling the fastening loose, and he can't tear his eyes from the pale glow of skin at her throat, and lower.

She shrugs out of her unfastened robes and there, just there, something primal rears its head and takes notice inside him, waking up growling and hungry. All of a sudden something as innocent as his hands on her shoulders seems very different, skin-to-skin. "Well," she says faintly when he doesn't move, traces of humor and despair in her voice. "Come on, then."

He realizes abruptly that she's the only one vulnerable, near-naked and waiting in patient expectation, and he fumbles at the strap to his sword, only a faint flickering protest of _no, you can't_ in his mind as he sets it aside, propping it up to lean at the head of the bed.

Ready. In case. The weight of duty and choice twinges in his throat, and he only thinks he should feel it more sharply.

Therrin considers the sword calmly, just for a moment, and turns back to him and meets his eyes before she kisses him, full of warmth and invitation. Their own peculiar gravity pulls him in and off-balance and he's falling, they're falling, caught by the soft safety of the bed as he balances himself on a hand, pulling at his shirt with the other because he wants it off. The flat of her palms skimming across his chest sends a spike of heat through his skin, trails of warmth thrumming in his veins as he tosses the shirt away and finds her mouth again and they fall into a heady tangle of lips and tongues. She shifts below him, a few quick adjustments of her fingers, a twist of hips and she's pulled off her underclothes without giving up his mouth.

It's a revelation in itself to feel her: the slide of her skin against his, the soft brush of her breasts on his chest and her hands on his back, as much soothing his uncertainties as igniting his blood. It's sharp, for a moment, the realization that for all the talk of brotherhood and togetherness that templars don't touch people, and how much he wanted this, and for how long. The simple fact of human closeness becomes nearly more than he can bear for an aching span of heartbeats as he runs a hand down her side to the swell of her hips.

When she parted to him, he doesn't know, only knows that she's warm and soft, her thighs on either side of his hips as she arches into him when he kisses her again. When she breathes he can feel it, when she makes a small noise of satisfaction he can feel it against his lips and it sends an echoing groan through his chest. He wonders with the faintest edge of delirious impatience why they aren't joined yet, why they didn't do this years ago, centuries ago, twice this morning and four times yesterday. But she isn't making any move for the laces of his trousers and he realizes she's waiting for him to do it himself. It's not just _one_ choice, he thinks, it's a series of choices, a winding staircase of decision, and he's got to make the climb himself.

One last glance at duty and sin and he reaches for his trouser-laces, clumsy with impatience. He tugs them into a hopeless knot for a moment before they come free and it's the smallest, most ridiculous victory of his life but he's vaguely triumphant anyway, and then Therrin's hands are there in his own, her fingertips dragging down his hipbones as he pushes off the last of his clothes. The sensation is nothing like the hurried, silent explorations of himself he'd attempted through years of guilt and absolute lack of privacy in a templar dormitory. He can't help a jerk of his hips, reflexive and graceless as her fingers trail closer, as the cadence of his breathing gets less and less steady and he buries a moan against her temple.

There's skin under his palm, soft and warm and he's half-afraid for a wild moment that she's going to be angry, that someone's surely going to be angry at him for touching her. He rallies the little rebelliousness at his core and cups her breast in one hand, a marvel of softness and sensation and she smiles at him. It's the first genuine smile he's seen on her in what feels like forever and it eases something in him he hadn't known was wound tight.

But then she bends forward to trail her mouth down his chest in a warm slide of kisses that makes desire roar in his ears, and her hands are at his back again, trailing soft tracks of pleasure down his spine and he's… he's right there and he's going to lose his mind. With their hips settled together he can feel the warmth of her against him and it's an effort not to grind forward just from instinct, not to babble out a litany of _pleases_ into her hair.

"Oh," Cullen manages instead, voice almost unrecognizably thick. "They don't stop at the neck." He rubs a finger over a freckle right between her breasts, almost trembling with the effort required to keep himself still.

Therrin takes his hand in answer, pressing kisses to his palm, his wrist, to the whitish nick-like scars across his knuckles from a lifetime spent handling a blade, and then she looks up at him, winding his fingers in her own. "I love you."

He tries to answer in kind and can't, his throat too tight to speak.

She considers him, eyes soft. "Trust me," she murmurs after a moment, a quiet plea he barely hears even now, close enough to feel her pulse jump under her ribs. He nods—the merest fraction of a movement, a lifetime of assent—and leans in to kiss her, near-shuddering from the slide of her legs against his, and then she reaches down between them and tilts her hips up and he's buried inside her, half before he realizes. Heat jolts through him at the incredible sensation suffusing his body, of fire and glory, joy and light. Her head's fallen back, mouth open and eyes closed and he doesn't dare trust himself to move, but then her arms slide around his shoulders, his name falling from her lips like a broken prayer. She pushes against him and he moves to meets her again and again. There's got to be some art to this, some sort of skill he doesn't have; all he's got is instinct and drilled-in discipline, the deep and urgent desire to give in, slide into her over and over again tempered by the flickering thought at the edges of his mind that she's clutching at him, making desperate little sounds of pleasure and need and that's… _that's_ worth holding on for, so he tries.

Templar discipline. He's fairly sure that none of his instructors had ever intended him to use it for this.

The world contracts into simplicities: the warmth of her below him, around him, the sense of time stretching out liquid and forgiving, her body soft under his hands as they move in a greater intimacy than he's ever known. The taste of her skin, the scent of her hair, the feel of her breast beneath his fingertips and the little gasps of encouragement she gives as he learns the shape of her with hands and lips, all muffled by the dull roar of rain outside, the storm passed, the world washed clean.

She goes tense, stifling a moan against his neck and he nearly stops cold because he must have done something wrong, she's hurt, he's harmed her. But she clutches at him and begs him not to stop and it about undoes him right then. The world goes hotter, her legs laced around his hips as she… oh Maker, she tightens around him, and he thinks that's probably a good thing but he's not sure.

After a moment Therrin manages an unsteady breath and opens her eyes, looking faintly puzzled that he's gone still.

"You're… are you all right?" he asks, feeling a little foolish.

She laughs in surprise, sliding her hands up his chest. "Yes. More than all right," she smiles, suddenly boneless and relaxed in his arms. "You?"

Cullen nods helplessly, silent because if he speaks he's only going to babble a thousand things that won't make any sense at all, but she smiles again, understanding. "Come on, then," she murmurs again, encouraging, and it's all the urging he needs to bury himself in her again, deep and half-desperate, the fire in his skin stoked to blazing by the press of her hands, the warm slide of her tongue against his and the soft, slick heat of their joining.

There's only so much anyone can be expected to endure before giving in and he's rushing up against his own limits, fast and dark, a vague panic in the back of his mind at the thought of losing control. The edge is there faster than he expects, a bright point of heat and light pulling him down through her body, an endless fall of pleasure that crashes over him in a wave as he gasps with the force of release. He falls forward, dimly alarmed, spent and shaking and she catches him and winds her arms around him and holds him close. Once he can breathe again he joins her, fallen and free, murmuring broken declarations into her hair as the Tower seems to settle around them and the world realigns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter would not have been possible without the wonderful CJK and Bladesworn, the slayers of my fearsome dragon of writer's block, and upon whom all good things in the world should be bestowed.


	20. The Restless Night

In the deep hours of the night the Tower seems to settle into silence, a dark and breathless hush that winds through the endless halls and seeps through the stones. In floors below, apprentices are sleeping; in rooms around them others have gone to bed, fires extinguished or left to burn themselves to ashes. Tucked against Cullen's side with her arm slung limply across his chest, Therrin is sleeping.

Cullen is wide awake.

Not that he isn't tired, Maker _above_ is he tired. The newly-discovered warmth of someone beside him in bed is an unexpected comfort that doesn't help, the slow, quiet rhythm of her breathing lulling him to sleep… but no.

Every time his eyes drift closed he sees it again behind his eyelids—what happened the last time Therrin fell asleep—and it shocks him alert. His eyes seem to catch on the hilt of his sword, a sharp-edged reminder of the weight of duty.

He isn't shirking his duty, he insists to himself. Every minute that slips by in quiet is another minute in which nothing happens, another minute in which he is right here and ready should he need to be.

Therrin stirs drowsily against him and without thinking he smooths a hand over her hair, a soothing gesture that lulls her back to sleep with a sigh. The sound drags at him, soft and low, an invitation to give into the desire to let down his guard and rest. Cullen blinks the grit from his eyes and resists, settling instead for tracing the line of her shoulder with his fingertips. Quiet nothings murmur over and over through his mind, new-forged memories tumbling through his thoughts like river-stones.

It's a different kind of watch, and he thinks vaguely that there should be some sort of humor in keeping vigil naked with Therrin's legs tangled in his own, but he can't rally any amusement at all. Cullen sinks deeper beneath the blankets and curls his arm closer around the sleeping woman beside him, as determined as though he could hold back the darkness through the sheer power of will.

-oOo-

The Circle Tower isn't built for comfort. No matter how much she thought she'd known it before, Leliana isn't quite prepared for how drafty the halls are, how barren the rooms feel with their high ceilings and cavernously empty spaces. She had never been up this late before, either, with Amell's room empty and cold and her bed like a slab of iron in the dark.

How much of the discomfort she'd felt as she'd turned and twisted in the blankets was due to the squirm of guilt catching at her heart, she doesn't wish to think about. Wynne had been little help—had all but thrown her out bodily from her rooms, in fact—and Dog had tucked in with Stephen in the apprentice quarters, and Amell is nowhere to be found.

Leliana is no amateur at finding people, even those who don't wish to be found, but walking in circles up and down staircases in the darkest hours of the night is unusually disorienting, the strange shadows on the walls unsettling as they slide past. The Tower had never made her feel so small before; now it's as though it's a living entity, cold and mocking as though it knows its own, and knows she has no place here.

It is only stone, she thinks stubbornly. It's nothing to be afraid of. From two doors down comes the sound of a small crash and clatter, and then a muffled complaint in a familiar voice and the scrape of furniture across stone. Teagan?

Leliana is at his door near-immediately, knocking soft raps against the wood. "My lord?"

There's more muttering, grumbling she can hardly hear through the door and another scraping sound before the door's wrenched open, Bann Teagan standing there disgruntled and careworn with a frown ready on his features that fades when he realizes it's her. "Leliana. Ah—"

His room's pitch-dark save for the wedge of light admitted by the door, a little table upset near the empty fireplace. Leliana's forehead creases in concern. "Is everything all right?"

"It's… yes," he manages. "The candle went out. I wasn't accustomed to the room, and I…" he glances over his shoulder with a hint of asperity, as though it's the room's fault for being unfamiliar.

"Knocked over a table?" she finishes.

Teagan gives a small sigh. "Yes."

"I see," Leliana says uselessly, agitation fluttering in her ears at the sight of Teagan—easygoing, affable Bann Teagan—so raw-edged and unhappy. "My lord, are you…" _Quite well_, she'd meant to say, but in the unguarded moment in which he leans on the doorframe it's obvious that he's not quite well, and the question dies unasked. "I'm so sorry," she says instead, twisting her hands in front of her. "For earlier. It was so awful."

He's frowning at her as though he doesn't quite understand. "Sorry?" But before she can respond he gives himself a shake, glancing around. "I beg your pardon, my manners… hallways are no places for such a conversation. Would you like to come in?"

It's a testament to the both of them that it only takes a span of moments for civility to be restored: the candles lit, the table set to rights, the sturdy tea service collected from where it had sprawled. "I shouldn't disturb you so late," Leliana says politely, smoothing down the edge of the tablecloth.

"No, not at all. Far from it," Teagan offers, rubbing a moment at one temple before attempting a smile that feels just a little thin. "Sleep seems a rather faraway prospect tonight, I'm afraid."

It takes her aback a moment, and she hesitates before venturing, "I was looking for Amell. I'd thought…" she falters, briefly. "I'd hoped she might be with you." Not entirely true, but mostly true. There's no harm in mostly true.

But Bann Teagan isn't looking at her. "No." He shakes his head once, eyes settling on the cold fireplace. "We parted ways some hours ago. Though I wouldn't worry about it," he says with forced lightness, kneeling by the little hearth. "I imagine there are a number of places in the Tower she might go for privacy. If I may ask, what keeps you up so late? And please," he adds as an afterthought, waving a hand at the little couch. "There's no need to stand."

Leliana sinks to the upholstery automatically, creasing a fold of her skirt between her fingers. "When Amell didn't come to bed, I was… alarmed," she admits, watching Bann Teagan carefully. "After what happened earlier, I didn't think she should be alone." Nothing changes in Teagan's expression or posture, and after a moment Leliana lets out a soft sigh. "It will be better for her to be away from this place, I think. Once she's back out in the world…"

Teagan stiffens slightly, tension leaping into his shoulders and tightening his frame, and it screams loud and clear what Teagan himself would be reluctant to say aloud.

"Oh," Leliana says softly. "Did you—?" As though she can't already tell. Still, the obligations of politesse must be observed, and it's unbecoming to assume, even with a bittersweet ache beginning at the back of her throat.

Teagan rocks back on his heels, apparently deciding not to light the fire after all. "The engagement's broken," he says flatly. "Such as it was."

A vision of Amell's calm-eyed optimism at Teagan's side bubbles up in Leliana's conscience, unhappiness twisting in her heart at the thought of Amell's hopes dashed to pieces. "I'm so sorry," she offers automatically. "I know that this afternoon was… unpleasant."

Teagan's glance is annoyed as he pushes to his feet. "That's one way to put it."

"But it isn't her fault," Leliana insists, clutching her hands together in agitation. "One would hope you would understand, and not be hard on her for something she cannot help." _You attacked her_, she thinks privately. _When you were enthralled by a demon, you tried to kill her, and she did not hold it against you._

But she has the feeling such would not be a productive line of conversation.

"Hard on her?" he asks, a little surprised. "No. She was the one to… to suggest that perhaps our lives were not as compatible as they'd first appeared. I was prepared to honor my offer."

There is a world of implication in his words, little scraps of meaning Leliana gathers automatically and shuffles into something like order. "I am sorry, my lord," she says at last, trying not to wince. "Am—"

"Teagan," he interrupts, turning to glance at her. "Please, just Teagan. You never call me 'my lord' in our letters."

Oh, Leliana thinks, a soft and vague surprise pressing at her brain. Very well, then. But she shakes herself minutely, back to the matter at hand. "Amell can be terribly blunt when she is unhappy. She would not mean to be harsh with you."

He only sits down, the ghost of a sigh on his breath as he rubs at his forehead with one hand. "It's for the best, I think," he admits dully. "Otherwise I'd simply have raced in unthinking, and not known until…" Teagan's expression goes distant, brooding. "Well," he finishes, and leaves it at that.

There are two separate matters at play here, Leliana can feel them, intertwined but distinct, and she wavers a moment before asking. "Raced in? I don't understand."

Granted, his decision to marry Amell had come as a… a not-entirely-joyful surprise, after months of correspondence making no mention of the issue. But Teagan isn't one to make such a decision lightly, or in haste. So she'd thought.

A weak smile flickers at his mouth. "Forgive me. I don't mean to burden you with trivialities."

_Hardly trivial_, Leliana thinks skeptically. _Nothing trivial would weary you so. _"My… Teagan," she corrects mid-flow. "It is no burden. Your letters were the most wonderful solace during the time I spent with the expedition for the Ashes; if something troubles you, I will help if I can."

Teagan considers her a moment, expression nearly remote. Anyone else might not have registered the brief surge of feeling he'd suppressed almost immediately, the sense of weighing. "You have been a friend to my family," he says quietly after long seconds of silence. "And to Redcliffe, and to me." His glance at her becomes measuring, tinged with significance. "You may have gathered from our correspondence that…" He grasps for words a moment. "That all isn't quite well in Redcliffe. In more ways than simply getting the city back to normal, more than simply rebuilding."

Ah. She'd suspected as much—but she says nothing, only gives the small nod meant to encourage unobtrusively.

"My brother," he begins with a fleeting grimace. "No. You recall my saying that Arlessa Isolde is… expecting a child."

Leliana folds her hands in her lap, waiting. "Yes, of course."

Teagan hesitates, not looking at her. "My brother—that is, Eamon confided in me that he believes the child is… not his own."

Concern sharpens to worry in Leliana's mind, quick and alert and already weighing the considerations of the situation, but she merely says, "I see."

"I must ask you to keep this between us, of course."

She's already nodding. "Of course," she echoes. "But… you didn't mention it, before," she ventures.

His mouth twists a little. "The conversation was hardly private.  I had thought Therrin might pick up on it, but…"

But Amell isn't trained for intrigue and half-veiled secrets, Leliana finishes silently, and so heard only the obvious. "This… leaves your brother without an heir," she says carefully, choosing her words delicately. "Unless I am mistaken."

Teagan makes a sound that isn't quite a laugh. "No. He has one heir. Me." He rubs at his forehead as though trying to soothe a lingering headache. "He's giving over the arling this summer, stepping aside. I believe he means to stay in Denerim with the king. But he—neither of us—could stand the thought of Redcliffe being passed down to someone who wasn't family, and times are still unsettled. Eamon believed it was in the best interest of Redcliffe for…" He gestures, grasping for words. "For me to settle in Redcliffe and marry, as quickly as possible. Therrin was the first woman who came to mind," he admits. "I was rather overwhelmed by the news; I should have considered more thoroughly the magnitude of it all."

Leliana sits back a fraction, mind racing. With Teagan as arl—no one would have stood for him to marry Amell after the fact, but if she'd married him as a bann, it might have worked. She is still a heroine in Redcliffe, Leliana reminds herself. But she'd have been untitled, still, holding a very untraditional sort of power.

Though, granted, a mage has no family… if keeping Redcliffe in the hands of the Guerrins is a priority, the lack of another family to edge in on power could be an advantage, the lack of a wife's title could be a measure of security. Leliana wonders briefly if Arl Eamon knew his little brother had proposed marriage to the woman who'd killed his only son. Necessity or not, she doesn't think him the type to forgive such an action. "But if you'd be expected to produce…" _an heir,_ she finishes silently, near-wincing at the indelicacy of such a statement.

Teagan nods, understanding. "I wasn't aware of Therrin's… situation… until after I'd already proposed. And after that there was little I thought to do but make the best of it. I couldn't very well change my mind and break my word. Besides, the queen is expecting. I thought…" He trails off, looking weary before offering a rueful laugh. "It's not important, I suppose."

Well, Leliana thinks, pensive. Perhaps it's just the problem of a pair of Wardens together. Amell hadn't been very specific.

"What a mess," Teagan mumbles tiredly, resting his head in one hand. "I know you're friends, and close; I hope you believe that I had no intention of causing her any harm."

"Of course not," Leliana soothes immediately. "And I can't believe she would think so. Amell will understand, I'm sure." Perhaps not right away. But eventually.

It doesn't reassure him at all. "I can't…" he gives his head a small, disbelieving shake. "I can't imagine waking up to that," he admits, a little roughly. "If the Knight Commander hadn't been there, if _you_ hadn't been there…" He doesn't finish.

Leliana considers it a moment. "It is entirely possible it might never have happened again," she says at last, very gently. "Away from the Tower, in a more contented, freer life, she would have been happy, I think. It would have been simpler, calmer. Calm, happy women don't…" _Don't draw demons from the Fade_. "Don't experience such difficulties," she says instead.

Teagan shakes his head, dissatisfied. "I'd thought it was just Connor. From being so young, so poorly trained. I didn't know full mages would be subject to such… difficulties," he admits, though it clearly isn't his word of choice.

"Training does not make a mage not a mage," Leliana reminds him. "Even if Connor had been sent to the Circle—" Teagan's gaze drops, becomes faraway, and abruptly Leliana feels rather thick. "I'm sorry. It must be hard for you, to speak of him."

"No." He drags a hand across his face, tired. "It's… difficult, sometimes. But in Redcliffe he's never spoken of. Even Isolde avoids the subject now. She speaks only of her new child." Teagan's mouth twists a moment in grim bitterness. "But for everything that happened, he was my nephew, still. And just a boy."

"You cared for him," Leliana says, not really a question.

Teagan doesn't quite smile. "Yes. I did. And I… it seems strange, but I miss him, sometimes. Even after all the horrors, after everything."

_Even after being made a jester?_ Leliana thinks but doesn't say, the memory of Teagan taken over like a puppet crawling unnervingly through her brain. But that was not the boy, that was the demon, and she knows enough not to mistake one for the other. "I am very sorry, Teagan," she offers. "For all that you have lost."

Would that they'd found a better solution.

Teagan considers her a moment, expression softening. "Thank you, Leliana. It's… kind of you to listen. Speaking with you makes it seem easier, somehow, less…" he waves a hand vaguely, grasping for the right word. "Vast," he says at last. "I'd nearly forgotten how much I missed good company. There's no one really to talk to in Redcliffe; everyone's looking to me to restore the city and it doesn't much lead to friendly conversation," he finishes ruefully, the echoes of deeper pain hanging around him like shadows.

And Leliana cannot banish his demons, cannot call forth cleansing fire or alter the course of time, but conversation, commiseration, listening: this she can do. She offers a smile, slipping to her feet and heading for the tea service. "If you would allow me…?"

He nods immediately, seeming relieved she isn't going. "Of course."

The practiced motions of making tea require no thought at all, the soft flutter of happiness beneath her ribs pushing repressively at a stubborn flare of guilt as she does her best to squelch them both. It is only conversation, she insists firmly. It's nothing.

But after she brings them both cups of the hot, lemon-scented tea it somehow becomes more than nothing, the hours slipping by one by one as they speak. It surprises her a little how much she'd missed having someone to speak to, well-educated, well-cultured. Someone who can speak of more than swords or magic, more than death and battle plans. The bright glow of the candles seems to create a little oasis, a haven of soft comfort that neither of them are eager to leave, and as morning draws closer there always seems to be one more subject to speak of, one more point to explore, one more…

-oOo-

Less than an hour from dawn Cullen jerks awake, a cold wedge of alarm in his chest at the half-formed idea that he's fallen asleep when he was supposed to be keeping vigil.

Therrin is already awake, watching him with sleepy amusement. "Good morning," she laughs in a near-whisper before glancing up at the window. "Well, almost morning."

The tracks of dreams are still fogging his thoughts, and it's like pushing through spiderwebs to clear his mind. "Morning? How long have you been up?"

He feels her smile more than he sees it. "Just a couple of minutes." Her head tilts as she considers him. "I've never seen you look so peaceful before. I couldn't think of waking you."

But the utterly lax tranquility of earlier is already bleeding away in the face of a number of disquieting thoughts, not least among them the fact that they've spent nearly an entire night together and if someone had missed them, they could be in for a world of consequences.

_He_ could be in for a world of consequences, he corrects himself. He's the one who isn't supposed to be here. His body doesn't seem to care, though, sending rather insistent signals that he's naked, and that Therrin is beside him skin-to-skin and very female and also naked and that perhaps he should do something about that… but they've already chanced enough.

Therrin seems to know, eyes mournful in the dim room. "This is the part where we slink off in opposite directions so we don't get caught, isn't it?" 

If he could he would come up with a thousand ways to say no, a battery of words to hold back the dawn and the inevitable separation that grows nearer with every heartbeat. "Not yet," he says instead, swallowing regret and pulling her close to rest on his chest, tucking his chin at the top of her head. "A few more minutes."

This is new and unexpectedly sweet, just as it is: holding onto each other in the dark, fingers and limbs tangled together in a merging that has nothing to do with desire. Still, the bitterness of the entire damned, impossible thing bites at him painfully. _You deserve better than this_, he's about to tell her, but she sighs and pushes away from him before he can speak, shoulders squared and expression resolute.

"We'd best not push our luck, I think." She lights a candle and reaches for her discarded robes, and pulls them on as though they're armor, girding herself against the coldness of their reality. After a moment's hesitation he follows, a quiet emptiness gnawing at him the entire time he fastens ties and laces, the weight of his sword feeling impossibly heavy.

"I meant what I said," he tells her quietly, and her hand stills on the doorknob as she turns, inquisitive. "I do love you."

Therrin gives him a small smile. "I didn't doubt it. I love you too, Cullen." She steps toward him and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing a small kiss to the side of his throat. He holds on stubbornly (selfishly, he can't help but think) for just a few seconds more. Long enough to rattle at her invisible armor, apparently. She doesn't look as determined as before when he pulls away.

But after that she opens the door, and they do their best Knight Commander and Senior Enchanter out for a walk in the pre-dawn hours impression, none of your business, thank you, nothing to see here. The act lasts precisely fifty-seven steps, which is when they run into Leliana, looking bleary as she shuts Teagan's door behind her and steps out into the hall, blinking at the both of them before her eyes go wide. "Amell."

Therrin pretends innocence.

Leliana crosses her arms, frowning. "Where were you? And what are you doing up so…" Her eyes cut to Cullen and go wider. "Oh, _Amell_," she says, disappointed.

Therrin mirrors her frown. "What are you doing up so late outside Teagan's room?"

Leliana's mouth opens and closes soundlessly, just a moment. "Come along," she huffs, taking Therrin's arm with a glare at Cullen. "You should not be out."

Therrin glances a goodbye over her shoulder as she's near-dragged away, and after that Cullen heads back to his room, readying himself for the day. The rituals of his morning preparations feel numb, hollow. There is changing his clothes and washing his face and taking his lyrium, there is doing up the fastenings of his armor (which seem hard to manage, as though his fingers have lost the knack of it overnight), there is a moment in which he pulls in a last, steadying breath before heading back out into the Tower.

The few other templars he comes across merely nod and wish him good morning. It seems like everyone should know, as though the evidence of last night should be painted luridly across his armor, etched into his skin and screaming all around him.

But no one seizes him, no one accuses him of sin and failure as he half-expects. Instead everything goes on as before. By all appearances he is still simply the Knight Commander, and no one seems to have the slightest idea that somehow nothing is different, and that everything has changed.

-oOo-

Leliana doesn't want to talk about it, which has to be a first, Therrin thinks as she lets herself be led to her own bed and nestled into blankets. Leliana bundles down quiet beside her in the semi-darkness.

_In the morning, Amell_, she'd murmured tiredly, and Therrin hadn't protested that by a lot of measures it already was morning. The prospect of a few more hours of sleep is too alluring, the even sounds of Leliana's breathing like a lullaby. Therrin is almost there, already dozing and ready to fall into dreams, and so she thinks at first that the shout that rings down the hallway isn't real.

"Therrin!"

She startles awake, blinking and groggy and sure it's got to be a dream before she hears, "Therrin Amell, you'd better… _ow_, Oghren!"

It doesn't make any sense. Why in the world would Alistair be here and shouting for her? But she knows his voice down deep in her bones, and as impossible as it seems there's no question of the truth. She stumbles out of bed with a bleary Leliana at her heels, into the hallway to find out what's going on.

Sure enough, he's right there (and Oghren too, in new armor that really suits him quite well, she thinks dully, not quite over the surprise of it all). "Thank the _Maker_," Alistair says fervently as he strides over and with no warning she's being crushed against his armor in an uncomfortably tight embrace.

Therrin wants to shake him. "What—" _What are you doing here, what are you thinking, are you out of your mind?_ she wants to ask but her tongue feels thick and slow.

"Trouble," he says shortly, breathless as he steps back and lets her go. "_Big_ trouble, headed this way. Name of Andraste, woman, you've done it this time. Bann Teagan," he sighs tightly, glancing down the hall at the unfortunate new target of his ire. "I don't know what's wrong with the Guerrin family these days but Eamon's gone as cheerful as week-old porridge and now _you've_ run off to the Circle Tower thinking with your dangly bits and… _gah_." His momentum crashes to a halt, only momentarily. "You all leave me to clean up the messes. Look," he begins again, alarmed enough that Therrin tries to snap herself fully alert because if _he's_ here to announce big trouble, it's…big.

"We don't have much time," Alistair continues in a rush. "They'll be here soon and… oh." Alistair's expression goes grim and hard as he glares at something over Therrin's shoulder and her heart sinks when she turns to find Cullen there, blinking surprise.

"Knight Commander," Alistair scowls darkly, sounding foreboding and suddenly every inch a king. "I'm going to need a word with you. In private. _Immediately_."


	21. The Bladed Choice

Even though the office is Cullen's King Alistair seems to command the entire space, falling ungracefully into a chair and watching Cullen with narrowed eyes, and as soon as the heavy door is closed he says sternly, "I need some answers, Knight Commander."

Cullen can't help a frown of confusion, the unsettled feeling of being interrogated by the king doing nothing to mitigate the crawling feeling of foreboding at the idea of trouble, big trouble, heading this way_._ "I'm sorry?"

The king leans forward intently, looking for all the world like a wolf on the hunt. "I heard there were demons in the Tower as of… what was it, yesterday? And I heard Therrin was involved. I really thought she'd be dead by the time we arrived; you have a certain reputation in Denerim."

Cullen blinks, affronted. "Reputation?"

"I was here," the king barrels on, jaw set. "I don't know that you remember, but I saw for myself your opinion of mages. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad she isn't dead. But when your courier told us about the attack I expected the worst, and the Chantry's not going to simply overlook it. They're after her head already and I have to know what happened, as quickly as you can get it out, because they're no more than an hour behind me and when they get here we're going to have a fight on our hands."

Cullen's mind reels, tilting madly as his thoughts refuse to settle into anything like clarity or sense. The Chantry after her head, the trouble the… courier? "I didn't send a courier," Cullen protests numbly.

"Then you've got a rat among your templars," the king says grimly. "Headed with all haste for Denerim. He'll have caught up to the Chantry assembly by now; I can't imagine it'll make anything better. Maker above, it was bad enough as it was." He rubs a moment at his temples, as though his head is aching and heavy before spearing Cullen with a hard glance. "First off: demons."

Cullen sinks into his chair dazedly. "She was dreaming," he reports automatically, his voice sounding far away to his own ears. "Three shades attacked, and were cut down."

The king looks like swearing for a moment before his scowl deepens. "Right. These things usually happen under pretty dire circumstances in the first place. What set it off?"

Cullen blinks. "I… nothing, that I saw. Nothing dire happened at all until the attack begun."

King Alistair leans back in his chair, skepticism obvious in his expression. "So just a normal day, tra la la, and then demons? Not likely."

"I…" Cullen begins again, wracking his memory for the steps in sequence. The window, the bird, the settling into the chair with Leliana, the dream… "She and Leliana had a conversation in private," he manages at last. "I don't know what they discussed, but Therrin was upset."

"Therrin," the king echoes grimly, eyes sharp and unfriendly. "Not 'Senior Enchanter Amell'?"

Apprehension trickles like melting ice down Cullen's spine. "Senior Enchanter, of course," he corrects dully.

"Right." Falling from the king's mouth, the word is twisted bitter with sarcasm. "Let's not forget propriety _now_, shall we? Looks bad for appearances to let slip you've been taking advantage of one of your captive mages. That is why she's still alive, isn't it?" he demands, hardly a question. "I do recall your little confession before she killed Uldred, you know. Something about the only thing you ever wanted, wasn't it? And now you're the Knight Commander, with the Circle and all the mages entirely under your power."

The accusation in his tone is dark and ominous, enough to take Cullen aback. "I don't… it's nothing at all…" _Like that_, he finishes silently, but panic is clawing heavy swipes at his brain. He'd never thought about how it must look to an outsider. How to explain it to the King (who's not just a king, he remembers, who's also Therrin's former lover) and Maker, what's he supposed to do? "Your Majesty," he begins, the words catching like brambles in his throat, "I cannot… explain."

_Not that it would do any good anyway._

"I don't understand why the Chantry's displeased with her," he protests dimly, because none of it makes any sense yet and the defensive whine in the back of his head is sputtering out. "She hasn't done anything wrong."

King Alistair frowns, as though Cullen's said something he didn't anticipate. "Protective measures, I expect," he says after a moment. "Bad enough when they caught wind she'd been involved with me; her actually marrying Bann Teagan's got them having fits. Ambition," he clarifies at Cullen's look of confusion. "They're accusing her of seeking political influence, first through me, then Teagan." He grimaces. "I know it's not what she's doing, but they're prepared to make a case of it. I don't think I have to tell you how thrilled they are at the idea of a mage having political pull of her own. Bad enough she's a hero; bad enough she's the one that found the Urn of Sacred Ashes. This is more than they can stand."

"Therrin isn't marrying Bann Teagan," Cullen corrects with a frown.

The king blinks surprise. "No?"

"The engagement—" Cullen hesitates, because it's Therrin's private business and not gossip. But the king looks expectant. "She broke it off. Yesterday, after the demon attack."

King Alistair leans back in his chair looking pensive but not reassured. "I see."

Cullen tries as forcefully as he can to think. "Shouldn't that improve the situation? If she's not marrying a nobleman, they've got no complaint with her. The Chantry wouldn't harm her unless she'd given them a reason."

The king looks, if anything, even grimmer, staring out the window with a scowl. "You just keep telling yourself that."

Cullen begins to protest but the words wither to ashes in his mouth. "You have to protect her," he says thickly, surprising himself.

_Idiot, you don't make demands of the king; you say 'please, Your Majesty, would you protect her' and not just drop the order upon him as though he's some new recruit fresh out of training._

But instead of getting angry King Alistair turns, expression guarded, and when nothing else is forthcoming he says, "I'm listening."

Cullen takes a deep breath, scrambling for words. Maker above he hopes the king's wrong, but if he's not… "If there is some sort of misunderstanding, or if they find the demon situation to be… it wasn't intentional," he manages, feeling as though his thoughts have all gone fractured, spinning out of his grasp like winking shards of a broken mirror. "She didn't summon anything. I was there; I witnessed the entire incident. But if they don't believe that, then I don't know that I could convince the Chantry otherwise. She hasn't done anything," he insists again. "Not anything in all the time since she returned to the Tower. She doesn't deserve to be punished for something she hasn't done. If anyone's failed it's me, and I'll accept whatever punishment the Chantry deems necessary."

The king is still for a moment, considering Cullen with hooded eyes. "What have _you_ done?"

Cullen opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out. Guilt and a perverse relief squirms through his mind at the thought of there being no more secrets, everything in Cullen's training screaming for confession and penitence and atonement. But this is the king, and this isn't the time. "The Maker knows my sin," he says instead, leaden and quiet. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

But the king is watching him, thinking, silence ticking out long seconds between them. "I see," he says again at last, and takes a breath to say something, but there's a knock at the door and the king pushes to his feet to answer it.

It's Therrin, in odd-looking robes Cullen's never seen before, with Oghren at her side and the pair of them looking ready for war. "They've arrived at the base of the Tower," she informs them grimly. "We don't have much time."

-oOo-

There is a clarity that comes in the face of impending battle. Complications become simple, the world sharpens into nexts: the next spell, the next dodge, the next shouted word, and in those moments nothing else matters because if you don't survive there isn't going to be a next anything. Approaching storms have a way of snapping everything into perspective. As they sit at the long table and Alistair briefs Wynne on the situation Therrin runs probabilities through her mind, Oghren's brief explanation of the Chantry's displeasure trickling back and forth through her head like sand.

_Steady_.

Alistair stops, and Therrin glances up to find Stephen and Dog in the doorway, hesitating just a moment before they launch themselves at her in a rush. Stephen leaps into her lap uninvited, winding skinny arms around her neck and smelling of dirt and bread, tucking his chin into her shoulder. "I was scared," he mumbles without preamble, trembling a little and clutching tight. "Of the demons."

Therrin's throat gets uncomfortably tight, the fragile calm of focus wavering sharply. "So was I," she admits, a little hoarse.

Stephen only holds on tighter. "Are you really in trouble? Donnel said they'd take you away and… and they _can't_." He makes a muffled hiccupping sound and buries his face in her neck; she realizes dimly that he's near-sick with worry and on the verge of tears.

If this carries on any longer it's going to shatter all her mental preparations but even so, she can hardly bear to push him away, her hands on his narrow shoulders. "Stephen, I need you to listen." He nods immediately, eyes dark and grave. "Find Leliana," she orders, the silence in the room reminding her uncomfortably that they're not alone. "She's praying in the chantry-room; go to her. Stay with her until it's safe. She'll know when. Do_ not_ run off," she says firmly, leveling a stern look at him for emphasis. "And be good."

He only nods again, sniffling.

"Try to be good," she amends, faintly rueful, because he's still just a little boy, and even the best intentions of good behavior sometimes go awry. She swallows hard and tries not to think that this might be goodbye, if things go poorly.

After one last quicksilver embrace he races off, disappearing out the door in a flash of limbs as Dog settles himself close at her side and Therrin's hand finds the back of his neck. Wynne is watching her and Therrin doesn't want to be watched, so she focuses on a dark fleck of color on the table until the First Enchanter turns back to Alistair. _I am a tree beside deep, still water, I am quiet and calm and shall not be moved._

"You think the Chantry intends to press the issue even with the engagement off?" Wynne asks, sounding skeptical.

"I'm not…" Alistair glances at Cullen, unsettled and dissatisfied. "I'm not entirely convinced this is really about that. I think it gives them something to point at, certainly, something they can wave like a banner to show the world 'look, she's getting ambitious, she's a threat'. But there's been whispers, I'm told, that they can't let it rest on principle. Magic existing to serve man and never rule over him and all that, except that here's Therrin who everyone in Ferelden's seen fight by now, and there's the thought that maybe that sort of power's too dangerous to be left lying around."

Therrin frowns. "What?"

"A weapon," Alistair says unhappily, his mouth twisting in a grimace. "Like you're a sword just waiting to fall into the wrong hands."

Therrin crosses her arms, disturbed. "Where are you hearing this?" There are only two ways to permanently neutralize a mage. Neither of them are appealing.

Alistair glances at Wynne, looking exhausted. "I have my sources."

Wynne considers him with faint, fond amusement. "Are you certain you don't want a change of clothes? You've tracked mud through half the Tower already; sitting in dirty, wet armor can't be comfortable."

"No time, I think." Alistair darts a glance at the door.

From down the hall comes a low din of footsteps, large and heavy and approaching quickly, and then the Chantry delegation is there, a bald man in a damp, muted robe and a dozen templars. The bald man looks decidedly taken aback at the assembled group, and it only gets worse when Alistair grins at him with a wolfish smile. "You must be from the Chantry! We were just talking about you, isn't that a wonderful coincidence?"

Wynne deliberately doesn't look at Alistair as she rises and gives a formal greeting, measuring out the space between herself and the king in little parcels of propriety and distance as though she hadn't ever traveled at his side and poured soup down his throat to rid him of the sniffles. Appearances, Therrin realizes a half-second too slowly. Wynne's First Enchanter, she's got to be as careful as possible. The king and the Circle can't appear to be too close.

But the thought's just a flicker against the fascination of the new templars. One of them's unhelmed and it's a moment's pleasant surprise to find that she knows him—Knight Commander Harrith, formerly of Redcliffe—and he nods a scant fraction in recognition when their eyes meet. But the others…

To the untrained eye they'd look only like templars, helmed anonymous and identical, but Therrin's spent her life in the Tower surrounded by templars and knows better. Some of them, yes—those two at the end have the rigid-but-ready posture that comes from years of standing watch, and another two in the middle of the formation as they line themselves at the wall—they look like what she's used to. But there's an enormous difference in the look of a full templar in the prime of training and maturity and these boys—none of them look quite right, shifting uncomfortably in place as though they've never worn the armor before, awkward beneath the heaviness of their plate metal and their postures clearly emanating nervousness even though she can't see their faces.

She had known, dimly, that many of Ferelden's templars died in the Tower, and later in the battle at Denerim, but she'd never thought before that there might be an actual shortage of full templars outside the Circle.

Alistair's eyes catch hers, a calculating glance passing between them: Well, isn't this interesting?

But the robed man settles himself at the table across from her, and Therrin can't afford to be distracted. She watches him carefully as he pulls papers from an oiled leather folder. "I am Brother Oswin," he begins, "head secretary to the Grand Cleric. She has entrusted me with full authority in this matter. Though I was not aware you would be in attendance, Your Majesty," he admits with an uncertain glance at Alistair.

"I happened to be in the neighborhood," Alistair returns easily, ignoring his own mud-spattered armor and giving a nearly pleasant smile.

"Of course," the secretary answers, just a shade doubtfully. "We are honored by your presence." The tone of voice is ingratiatingly humble. The flashing of the large Chantry seal is not. "Now then," Oswin continues, lacing his fingers together on the table and looking placidly at Therrin. "There are two issues that require attention today. We'll try to make this as brief as possible. You understand, I'm sure, that while all of Ferelden is grateful for the service you've given in the past, there are certain concerns that have arisen, as of late."

She's supposed to say something, she realizes, and the half-dozen sarcastic remarks that spring to mind are not productive. "Concerns?" she echoes instead, steeling herself to sharpness.

"Naturally," Brother Oswin answers, glancing around the table. "News of your impending nuptials came as rather a surprise. The irregularity of such an action on the part of a Circle mage is cause for no small level of consternation."

Alistair leans back in his chair. "You'll be happy to know that the engagement's off, then," he cuts in with razor-edged cheer.

"Senior Enchanter Amell was given full permission to leave the Circle," Wynne adds calmly. "There's nothing irregular with a mage in good standing being given dispensation to go. As First Enchanter she's under my authority. I find myself wondering at the Grand Cleric's concern."

"Ah," Brother Oswin says, a hint of affected regret in his tone as he shuffles his papers. "A mage in good standing, yes. But that isn't quite the case, I'm afraid." He looks up blandly. "It's rumored that you traveled for some time with an apostate," he continues. "And of course, there's the matter Knight Commander Greagoir informed us of some time ago in which you were accomplice to a maleficar. He was most disturbed by your involvement in the affair; doubly so because you escaped unpunished. According to our records you've still yet to face appropriate consequences for your actions involving the blood mage Jowan."

It's only the merest shred of control that keeps her from gritting her teeth. Greagoir and Jowan, Jowan and Greagoir. She should have known those two would find a way to haunt her.

Wynne's frown deepens. "The matter was discharged long ago. After her return she served for some months under Knight Commander Greagoir's observance with no mention of the incident. Surely if he deemed further punishment necessary he'd have seen it carried out himself."

Brother Oswin is unmoved. "Time alone does not mitigate the severity of the offense, I'm afraid. And the previous Knight Commander's failure to see justice done does not mean we should all simply overlook the matter."

Had the secretary been looking at Wynne he'd have seen the dangerous spark in her eyes, just a flicker, immediately suppressed, but he's looking at Therrin, calculating. "Moreover, it's not simply the one incident which proves a cause for concern. Rather, it's the pattern of irregular and reckless behavior—a series of actions unbefitting a mage of the Circle—which has come to the Chantry's attention and must be addressed."

_Damn_ him. Irregular, yes, because no Circle mage in living memory had been pushed into the situations Therrin had found herself in, but reckless…no. "Addressed how, exactly?" she asks levelly.

Brother Oswin smiles thinly. "Given the circumstances—and particularly in light of yesterday's incident—we believe it appropriate to pursue options of greater isolation. The Circle is still recovering, is it not?" he presses in the wake of his words dropping like stones. "We cannot chance another incident, not with the situation still so tenuous. Isolation from more vulnerable mages is clearly a safer solution."

Isolation. _Aeonar, you mean_, Therrin thinks, tension and the beginnings of fear sharpening in her veins. "Brother Oswin," she manages, lightly enough to surprise herself. "I believe you underestimate the mages."

He doesn't look concerned. "Unlikely. I would think you'd gladly remove yourself, given your loyalties to the Circle. You've already proven to be a threat; surely you wouldn't stand for other people to suffer the consequences of your staying when disaster seems nearly inevitable." He shifts slightly in his chair. "In any event, the matter is decided. It's for the best interests of all involved that you be removed from the Tower immediately and quartered somewhere you can be more thoroughly and appropriately monitored."

Imprisoned.

_The Fade take you_, Therrin snarls inwardly, careful to keep her expression bland. _I am _not_ going to prison again._

Cullen watches her and she can feel his alarm, but doesn't dare spare a glance his direction.

"All this is very interesting," Alistair begins with deceptive mildness. "But it's a moot point. The Chantry has no authority over Grey Wardens."

Brother Oswin blinks once, twice, startled speechless for a moment. "This isn't a Grey Warden issue, Your Majesty," he argues, recovering and squaring his shoulders. "This is a matter of practicality, of the safety of the Circle and all of Ferelden. We're aware of your former affiliation with the mage, but we must face the truth, no matter how unpleasant. Given her level of influence and ability, she concerns the Circle Tower and every templar within its walls. Thus the issue becomes very much a matter of concern to the Chantry."

"Matter of concern or not," Alistair argues, sounding considerably less mild by the second, "it makes no difference. She has responsibilities as a Grey Warden. I'm sending her to Amaranthine to join the others."

Therrin barely breathes, reeling from fear and fury to hope and back again, but Alistair's looking at the secretary and not at her. It's not as though she can leap up and drag him out of the room by his ear, hissing _how dare you, you bastard_, _this is my _life_._

"While your concern is admirable," Alistair goes on in a tone that indicates anything but, "the Chantry really doesn't have sufficient cause for such a drastic punishment. Imprisonment—we are talking about imprisonment, yes? It wouldn't do to be unclear."

Grudgingly, Brother Oswin nods.

Alistair smiles, a hard expression. "Time in the mages' prison is a punishment for the most serious of crimes, unless I'm mistaken. You don't imprison someone for a pattern of questionable behavior; prison is reserved as a specific punishment for specific crimes. And Therrin hasn't committed a crime, not against Ferelden, and certainly not against the Chantry."

For some reason Brother Oswin seems to relax, at that. "Actually, that brings us to our second matter of business. Knight Commander Cullen," he says, and Cullen jerks minutely in surprise. "You are demoted and relieved of command effective immediately. Knight Commander Harrith will be leading the templars at the Circle Tower from this point on."

There's a moment in which brutal instinct roars to life and it's all Therrin can do not to vault over the table and strangle Oswin with her bare hands.

Wynne darts a glance at Therrin, uneasy. "For what cause, secretary?"

"We met a loyal templar on the road," Brother Oswin explains. "He was most informative of the Knight Commander's lack of action yesterday after the demon incident—a lack of action that might easily have led to another full-scale attack on the Tower, one that might have cost the life of every mage and templar in residence. Such failure cannot be allowed to go unpunished. And while we do not deal in hearsay," he continues, too casual, "we were informed at the same time of a rather inappropriate relationship between the Knight Commander and Senior Enchanter Amell. No templar who allows himself to be thus compromised should be allowed to repeat his mistakes."

Cullen looks terribly, oddly calm, and gives a nod. "I accept whatever judgment the Chantry finds appropriate," he says quietly.

Brother Oswin seems surprised. "You do not deny it, then?"

Cullen seems utterly tranquil, a sight that sends fear racing through Therrin like a jolt of electricity. "No," he answers simply. "I don't."

_No, no, no_, rushes through her head like a horrified litany as the Tower seems to lurch from beneath her, the world coming apart at the seams with heedless, manic glee as everything seems to unravel around her. _Cullen, don't._

"Good," Brother Oswin says, looking a bit relieved. "Your willingness to cooperate makes this much easier. And while I'm sure you're aware of the steps we must take in response to your actions…"

Cullen gives a short nod. "Aeonar?"

Therrin's stomach drops and it's a monumental effort to maintain the last scraps of composure she has left.

"Quite so." Brother Oswin regards Cullen as though he finds him a curious case. "It was indicated that yesterday's incident may not have been as accidental as claimed, however, you are the only templar who witnessed it firsthand. If you would be willing to corroborate your fellow templar's testimony I'm sure your cooperation would be rewarded by a significantly reduced sentence."

Cullen frowns, faintly perplexed. "It _was_ accidental."

Brother Oswin cocks a brow. "Are you quite certain? You've seen firsthand what mages are capable of, from the information in Greagoir's report. Surely you would know how easily a mage can subject a templar to illusions."

Something hardens in Cullen's expression, and when his eyes find Therrin they're dark but steady. "I am certain," he says, not looking away. "Yesterday was an attack, not an incident. And not a summoning, as you seem to be getting at." He frowns again as he looks to Brother Oswin, perturbed. "Is this going on the record?"

When the secretary hesitates, Knight Commander Harrith takes a step forward. "Yes, I believe it is. This is your testimony?"

Cullen nods, resolute. "Yes. It is."

"It seems your position's growing a bit thin, Brother Oswin," Alistair interjects, an edge to his voice. "Now, unless you've got a specific accusation with evidence to back it up, you're here on questionable grounds. Making false accusations is a nasty business, surely you wouldn't want to have to answer for that."

Brother Oswin looks uncomfortable. "Your Majesty…"

Alistair brushes him off. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Therrin's correspondence with the king of the dwarves, would it? And the thought of certain possible trade agreements between the Circle and Orzammar that the Chantry might be less than thrilled about?" Lyrium. He doesn't say the word; he doesn't have to. Everyone in the room seems to suck in a breath, and Alistair looks faintly triumphant.

The secretary's eyes dart to Oghren, who stares back flatly. "Your Majesty…"

"He owes her his throne, you know," Alistair continues conversationally. "King Harrowmont, that is. Very grateful man. I doubt he'd be pleased at the Chantry's treatment of his benefactor."

Brother Oswin begins to scramble for an explanation, a denial, but Therrin only barely hears him, preoccupied by Wynne's barely-veiled look of horror as she stares at Cullen. Aeonar. The Veil is supposed to be pitifully thin there, demons drawn through with startling ease by all manner of prisoners, a wretched and desolate place lost to all but the Chantry. Uldred's cage had been bad enough over the span of days, and Cullen had been lost and near to breaking by the time she'd found him. The thought of Cullen caged for the rest of his life with demons all around is too much.

"No." The word drops from her mouth leaden and grim, heavy as the Tower.

Brother Oswin stops abruptly. "I'm sorry?"

It's an effort for Therrin to loosen her tongue, words crowding in her throat and dying back. "King Alistair said it already," she manages, her voice somehow even. "The Chantry has no authority over Grey Wardens. If I'm needed in Amaranthine, my duty is there. I will not be going to Aeonar," she finishes bluntly, resting her fingertips lightly on the table in case she needs to cast in a hurry because blessed Andraste this isn't going to be pretty. "And neither will Cullen."

And this is familiar enough to be absurd, the sensation of everyone in the room staring at her as she digs in her heels to defend the nigh-impossible. "There are some things that supersede any claim the Chantry can make on someone," she barrels on, Brother Oswin's retort faltering into silence. "The Right of Conscription is one of them."

With every nerve strung taut with fire, made worse by the feeling that this is a desperate last stand and she's fighting alone, she doesn't dare look at Alistair. _Forgive me_, she thinks briefly, _I know you don't understand_.

Brother Oswin's hands shake briefly above his papers, a flicker of denial across his features. "You can't…"

"She can," Alistair interrupts tersely. "Any Warden can. Duncan recruited me over the protests of the Grand Cleric herself."

Therrin takes a breath, clamping down on the reeling sensation of sudden gratitude and grief. "I would not force the issue unwanted," she forces herself to say, braving a look over at Cullen, who looks as stunned as she's ever seen him, an uncomprehending look of betrayal that fades as she continues. "If you would rather stay, the choice is yours to—"

"I thought the Wardens recruited the best and the brightest," Brother Oswin cuts in, rallying his considerable disapproval. "Not confessed failures."

Therrin resists the urge to bare her teeth, giving a tight-lipped smile instead that's only brittle at the edges. "Cullen is one of the finest templars I've ever known," she retorts coldly, crossing her arms. The finest, perhaps, but she isn't going to say that in front of Alistair.

"Regardless," Brother Oswin continues, "He's not going to be any use as a templar without… well," he amends, so smoothly Therrin knows it was intentional all along. "Once he's cut off, so to speak."

Lyrium again, Maker damn it all. The thought that Cullen takes it, needs it—and why hadn't she ever thought of it before?—hits her like a cold wall of water. But she's in now, committed and too far gone to stop. _Forgive me, forgive me_, she pleads silently, over and over like a river in her mind, and she doesn't know if she means it more to Cullen or Alistair or the whole of the world. "You underestimate my resourcefulness," she says instead, hardly recognizing her own voice because to her own ears she never sounds this poisonously bitter. "I'm sure given enough provocation I could find a use even for someone like you."

"Therrin." And that's the sharp edge of Alistair's patience, apparently. When she glances his direction his eyes are flat and hard and they hold the promise that later, there will be words about this, and it's enough to shake her back to the matter at hand.

"It's your choice," she tells Cullen, turning to look at him. "To stay, to be taken to Aeonar. Or to go to Amaranthine." _Prison or lyrium withdrawal, demons or pain and wretchedness and possible senility and death. _She's sickeningly aware that it's not much of a choice.

Cullen goes still for an achingly long time as he weighs his meager options. As she watches he presses his eyes closed, briefly, and she knows that look. He's praying. His head drops a moment as he takes an uneven breath, mouth moving silently in words she doesn't have to hear to know: _I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed._

_I'm sorry_, she wants to tell him, _I am so sorry it's come to this._ As awful as his fate would be at Aeonar, she thinks, he might find it preferable to die as he'd lived, a templar, obedient and unwavering to the last.

Wynne shifts slightly in her chair, her eyes soft. "Cullen?" Therrin looks at her in surprise. Wynne's voice had never sounded so gentle.

Cullen looks up, expressionless. "I'll go."

There's a breaking rush of relief too commingled with guilt to be truly happy, and in any case this isn't over. "Then I believe our business is done," she says, rising to her feet and looking pointedly at Brother Oswin, who shakes himself in startled disbelief, hands reaching for his papers automatically.

She thinks briefly that the Chantry shouldn't have sent a secretary to do a diplomat's job. A diplomat might have noticed that she hadn't actually invoked the Right of Conscription at all.

But she holds herself steady as he collects his things, gritting her teeth against the thought of Amaranthine and leaving the Tower. Maker above, it's the only real home she's ever had and Amaranthine is so very far away. "Congratulations, Knight Commander Harrith," she manages, somehow, and he nods politely in response.

"Thank you, Warden."

The word's like a hammer in her brain, all this too familiar, too bitingly sharp. Warden. The word weighs as much as a mountain.

Oswin bows in Alistair's direction and manages the farewell expected of educated gentlemen, and as soon as he and his templars are gone and the door shut behind them, Alistair jerks to his feet, livid. "I can't believe you."

"Alistair," Wynne scolds. "Not now."

But if there's ever been a time for it, if there's ever going to be a time for it, it's now. Alistair's eyes are sharp with accusation and bitterness hangs in the air between them, their whole bloody history gone ugly and painfully raw, and finally, above all things, honest.

"Wynne," Therrin says around the knot in her throat. "Could we have a few minutes?"

_Forgive me_,_ forgive me_ still runs through her ears like water as everyone files out, and she doesn't look up as they go. She only flinches when the door shuts with a noise that sounds terribly final and leaves her alone with Alistair in silence.


	22. The Errant Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CJK1701, without whom I would be considerably less sane and this story considerably less coherent.

"I can't believe you would do that," Alistair repeats, rough and angry and wheeling around to glare at Therrin. "You think it's a good idea, do you, kicking in the teeth of the Chantry? Using being a Warden as an excuse to be a giant bully?" His hands curl around the back of a chair, gripping hard.

Therrin's eyes are gritty and dry, and rubbing at them doesn't help. "They came here after me. I didn't start this."

A child's excuse; she knows better and grimaces.

The whole thing's a squirming tangle so massive and snarled she can't see any way to unravel it. The aching strands of _Cullen_ and _Amaranthine_ and _Aeonar_ and _lyrium _all whip together in her brain in a discordant refrain of _fix it, fix it, you're up to your neck in it now, Therrin, _do_ something._

"Besides," she retorts, "you did the same thing. You defied the secretary when you said I'd have to go to…" Her throat's tight and useless, the words choking in her mouth. "To Amaranthine," she manages finally in a near-growl. "Were you serious about that?"

"Absolutely," Alistair returns immediately, mouth tight. "But I did it to remind them that you're a Warden; I didn't bully them by pushing Conscription in their faces. And I didn't beat anyone over the head with the threat of becoming a Grey Warden." His expression darkens, knuckles going white on the chair. "Nice to know that's what you think of it."

Therrin resists the urge to glare and snarl at him, settling instead for a measured breath and spreading her palms flat on the tabletop, bracing. "Not everyone gets taken away from a life they hate to join the Wardens, Alistair," she reminds him with forced serenity. "Just because you felt lucky doesn't mean that every other Warden in the world is required to feel the same way. Some of us didn't have a choice."

Her own lack of choice comes back in a lurch of memory, of Greagoir's fury and Duncan's impassivity, the bereft and bleeding feeling of being young and muzzled and having her fate decided by old men to whom she was a commodity instead of a person.

"So you don't give your… friend? You don't give him a choice?" Alistair argues, brows knitted in anger. "Right, because that seems fair. I don't have to tell you how dangerous a Joining can be; did you think about the fact that he might not survive?"

She had; between the lyrium and shock Cullen's odds seemed grim. "I'm not putting him through a Joining," she says, adding at Alistair's look of stunned outrage, "I didn't invoke the Right of Conscription. Oswin thought I had; it was all we needed. I'm not going to make Cullen a Grey Warden ag—"

"Are you out of your mind?" Therrin stops abruptly, Alistair's eyes blazing fury and sending her thoughts reeling off-balance. "So let me get this straight," he bites out, more bitter than she's ever heard him. "All the time we were together before we have all these lovely little chats about honor and responsibility, and then you make me king when it's the last thing in the world I want, because it's my duty, according to you, and Ferelden needs me. And then as soon as you've got rid of the Archdemon you go skip off back to your Tower and hide for _months_ while I stay in Denerim and serve my blighted country like you told me I was supposed to. And now what? Months on end you can't be troubled to get off your ass and act like a Grey Warden, go join the others and rebuild, but you throw it around in a heartbeat the first time it's convenient?"

"It's not like that," she protests, trying not to take the bait, to leap out of her chair and shout.

"It is like that! You've no idea what you've shoved me into; the least you could do is try not to make things harder for me. You think the Chantry's just going to forgive and forget, here? Tea and cookies for everyone, no hard feelings, all just water under the bridge? No, they're going to be furious, and they're not going to overlook my part in this. I came here for you, because I thought you needed my help, and you go and throw the honor of the Wardens away like it's nothing."

She has to strangle a miserable laugh and it comes out ironic. "The 'honor of the Wardens'?"

Alistair's expression darkens. "Don't you dare."

Therrin smiles, tight and unhappy. "You'd rather I sing the praises of the Grey Wardens at the top of my lungs from the top of the Tower? All the way to Amaranthine? You're the second Grey Warden to come here and try to take me away from everything I've ever loved; I'm supposed to be happy about this?"

Alistair stops pacing, eyes incredulous. "Everything you've ever loved," he repeats tonelessly.

"Don't," she warns grimly. "It's none of your business."

He hesitates a long moment. "Right. Because nothing that happened before means anything."

Therrin scowls, a mutinous fury crawling up her spine. "I said don't."

Alistair grimaces. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not under your command anymore."

Therrin jerks to her feet, vaguely aware that her hands are curling to fists. "In case you haven't noticed, you're in command because I put you there."

He smiles, razor-edged and unpleasant. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"And in case you don't remember, Grey Wardens aren't bound to answer to Chantry _or_ governments, so you can't order me to Amaranthine at all!"

"Right!" He laughs and there's nothing happy about the sound. "Because this is exactly why I rode here in a blind panic from Denerim and left my pregnant wife alone—so that I could come save you from your own stupidity and then you could bite my head off!"

Therrin snorts. "Sure. It must be terrible being a popular king with a pretty wife and a child on the way and full rights of a citizen under the law, and the Chantry not showing up at your engagement ready to hang you on the spot." She turns in disgust, venom seething in the back of her mind. "Really, Alistair, my heart bleeds for you."

"_Shut up_." Therrin wheels to find Alistair close and storming closer, looking murderous. "You have no idea what my life is like, or my family, so you can shut up about it. I stayed and did my duty while you were here cowering from the world and your responsibilities as a Warden. You have no right to talk to me."

Therrin crosses her arms so she doesn't slap him, because there's some little part of her brain still rational enough to know that would be a bad idea. "What was I supposed to do?" she demands at last, her voice nearly level. "There weren't any other Grey Wardens in Ferelden, then. This is your world, Alistair, not mine—my world is here, at the Tower. Outside these walls I'm not even a person—"

"Outside these walls you're a hero," he retorts furiously. "But you don't know that, because you don't care enough to go live in the country we tried so hard to save. And maybe it's a good thing they don't see what you've become; I don't know. I never would have thought you'd become so…" Alistair trails off, and doesn't finish.

Her nails are digging into her arms, she realizes dimly, but she doesn't care. She tries to speak and can't, and only belatedly finds that she's clenching her jaw. "So what was I supposed to do?" she repeats, more levelly. "No, really! Tell me what I was supposed to do," Therrin insists. "You wanted me to do my duty? What was it? Stay in Denerim and play court mage, and take care of you when you got the sniffles?"

Alistair doesn't answer.

"I couldn't have done that," she manages, a spike of fury in her throat at the feeling of tears because she is not going to cry in front of Alistair. "I did the only thing I could think of; I went home."

"Yes, well, some of us don't get to go home," he argues. When she doesn't answer, he presses, "Home to the Tower or home to… to that templar?"

Therrin scowls again, darkly. "Don't."

"What? You've thrown the Chantry into an uproar for his sake and you'll bludgeon anyone who asks? You must've really taken well to all that brainwashing—"

"_Stop it_," she snarls. "It is none of your business who I'm with, ever, so leave it alone!"

"Oh, touchy."

She wheels around and advances; it's grimly satisfying to watch him retreat a step. "You're the one who got married five minutes after I left Denerim; you don't get to talk to me about love, or my life and my heart and…" She's losing momentum and tries desperately to hold on, anger making it hard to think. "It has nothing to do with you!" she finishes, voice breaking. She wishes he would just leave, or change the subject, or anything.

Instead he stops, entirely. "I'm sorry."

Without any warning at all Therrin is sobbing, months and months of keeping everything so deliberately shut away coming undone in a heartbeat and unraveling around her. "Don't you dare," she tries to growl, but it doesn't come out right at all.

"I am, I'm sorry." And his arms are around her shoulders and that makes it worse, but the fury's run its course and she can't rally any more. His armor is filthy but she rests her head on it anyway and cries.

"I miss you," he continues on, as though he'll never get the chance to speak if he doesn't do it now and he's trying to get the words out all at once. "You don't know how much. You're my best friend, you know, in all the world; I thought it was hard enough losing you… the one way. Losing your friendship was almost worse. I don't want you to be hurt; I don't want to be the one to hurt you. I just… I am sorry."

Therrin feels as though the world's contracted into a tight little ball, as though she can't breathe except in great wracking sobs.

"I know I can't make you go, and I don't want you to feel like it's… like it's punishment, or vengeance, because it's nothing like that. But I need you in Amaranthine," Alistair says quietly. "I wanted to ask instead of ordering you, but it didn't work out right, and I'm sorry."

Sorry.

She thinks vaguely that there's some significance in her getting a royal apology and takes a breath, stepping out of his arms and collecting herself, scrubbing her streaming eyes and nose as unobtrusively as she can on her sleeve. "What's in Amaranthine?" she asks at last, only a little unsteady.

Alistair hesitates a moment as though he's unsure, but finally straightens and goes businesslike. "Grey Wardens. Orlesian Grey Wardens in control of a strategically important port city. And they don't care anything for Ferelden politics, but all the arling is this side of civil war over the thought that I'm handing the Orlesians a way to ship in and take over. You're the only other Fereldan Grey Warden," he says. "If there was anyone else who could do it I'd ask but there isn't. I… it would settle things a great deal if you'd take over."

Therrin's eyebrows draw together. "Take over… Amaranthine? I'm also the least senior Grey Warden in Ferelden, and definitely the least senior Warden there. I can't just take over."

"Not take over the Grey Wardens," he clarifies, seeming relieved she isn't rejecting the idea altogether. "Take over the arling. It's given to the Grey Wardens, but they don't have any real interest in running it. Just living there, training there. They need a public figurehead, someone Fereldan and trusted who'll keep the people from thinking they're underhanded foreigners come to ambush them in their sleep. Please say you'll go. I didn't want to take you away from your home, from… the Tower, and everything. But this could go very badly without you. They need you. I need you."

It's logical—though logic does nothing to assuage the thought of leaving the Tower behind, of rickety bridges burned with the Chantry—and at last she nods. "When?"

Alistair's shoulder's relax in sudden relief. "When? Tomorrow morning, if you can go." Therrin nods again, throat tight. After a moment he frowns a bit, unsettled. "Do you think your… friend? Is he going to go with you, do you think?"

Therrin crosses her arms, protectively. "I don't know. I can't imagine he's very happy about any of this."

"It'll be all right," Alistair says, reassuring. "You're a charming woman, he'll come around." She raises a brow and shoots him a doubtful look, but his humor dies almost as suddenly as it had begun. "He'll have to get off lyrium, won't he?"

"Yes."

Alistair frowns. "How long's he been a templar?"

She grimaces. "Since he was sixteen."

He can't help but wince, and it does nothing for her confidence. But Alistair sees it and pats her shoulder companionably. "It'll work out. We're smart people, remember? We'll find a solution." He glances at the door. "Come on, let's reassure my bodyguards that we haven't killed each other."

"In just a moment." There's still a well of tears tearing at her throat in worry and grief, a world of mourning at the thought of leaving her home again for what might be a very long time, the thought of Cullen… "I'm going to need a minute," she says. "You go on."

With one last troubled glance backwards, Alistair leaves, and Therrin sinks back into a chair and cries.

-oOo-

Dog's human is the alpha again. Not that this is new—to him, she never stopped, and to Stephen, and to her packs of mage-puppies that look at her wide-eyed and learn the secrets of lightning and ice—but to the others she had stopped being the alpha after the big dragon had died and she had slunk back to the lake.

But she is not happy about it, and that makes Dog unhappy. Dog is also unhappy that he is not in the room and the king is shouting at his human, and she is shouting back, and Oghren has set himself up in front of the door and stands guard.

People, Dog thinks, impatient. The king and his human would fight better without words. But no one is happy, not just Therrin. Cullen comes back from somewhere looking lost and small without armor on, and he looks exactly like his human did after the king broke her, like he is not really here and is walking the halls unseeing. He doesn't respond when Dog lopes over and pushes at him with his nose.

But he smells interesting underneath the scent of steel and tears and salt, and Dog recognizes what that means. Well, Dog thinks. It took you long enough.

The sounds behind the door rise sharply—the king and Therrin very _very_ angry at each other, and it's loud enough now even the other people can hear—and then Oghren shifts, uncomfortable.

Cullen blinks like it's an effort. "Are they still in there?" He looks sick, and weary, and Oghren shrugs in answer.

Cullen's hands are shaking and he is not really all that steady on his feet, and Dog is just about to tell him _you should sit down before you fall down_ before Wynne rounds the hallway looking unhappy and drawn. "Oh. Cullen, my goodness."

And he tries to answer but can't, and Dog presses close by his legs to brace him, but Wynne is at his other side and takes charge, wrapping an arm around him to keep him upright, and between them they steer Cullen down the hallway and into a room Dog doesn't know.

Wynne is upset. She smells like anger and lavender, and Dog doesn't know why she is so angry but her mouth is set in a flat hard line. "When was the last time you ate?" she demands, easing Cullen into a chair. "Or slept? You look like you haven't had a moment's rest in days."

Dog wags his tail. He was busy mating with my human, he informs her.

Wynne does a double-take, frowning deeply. "You w—"

Cullen's mouth is hanging open, just for a second, before he heaves a ragged sigh and buries his head in his hands, almost falling over from lack of balance.

He needs to eat, Dog tells Wynne, because she's just standing there looking at Cullen with a thousand feelings on her face at once. Wynne shakes herself, a little, and frowns again, and Dog feels momentarily glad that it's not him she's angry with as she walks back out into the hallway.

You shouldn't worry, Dog tries to tell Cullen, who doesn't look up. If you're my human's mate, she will take good care of you. You will never be left alone or hungry.

It occurs to Dog as Wynne returns with a tray of food that if this is his human's mate, then maybe she will have mage-puppies, and then maybe they can be trained to give him food under tables and scratch his belly just right and even open doors when he wants. Dog considers this, and decides that he approves.

Wynne still smells like lavender and anger and now, like ice, and she watches Cullen eat and she is worried and so Dog pushes his head up under her hand to distract her. She doesn't pet him. Instead, she frowns again and busies herself with warming a basin of water, folding and refolding a little towel and looking unhappy every time she glances at Cullen.

Humans, Dog sighs. When you are unhappy you are all unhappy, and you aren't even going to hunt down whatever it is that makes you unhappy. But Cullen is picking at the last bit of his food and looks too tired to eat it—which Dog knows, too tired to eat means nearly dead—and he doesn't look up when Dog whines at his knee. Are you dying?

When Cullen finally does look up his eyes are dull, and doesn't answer. "Here," he says instead, holding out the crust of bread-and-jam to Dog.

Dog crunches it down and licks berry jam off his jowls, considering. Well. You were very bad at courting, he says, but you must have got better. And you were brave when you had to be. Dog wags his tail. You aren't perfect. But you can learn.

Cullen doesn't answer because Wynne has stopped refolding the towel and is at his shoulder, guiding him to his feet even though he still isn't steady. "You'll feel better once you've rested," she says firmly, and doesn't take her hand from his arm, and Dog cocks his head in curiosity because Wynne was never this familiar with him when Cullen was the man-in-charge. "Wash, and get some sleep, and if you need anything I won't be far."

Cullen nods and falls onto the bed without washing or taking his boots off or anything, but Wynne doesn't seem to mind that he didn't follow instructions. Dog follows as she walks out and closes the door behind her, heading down the hallway and smelling like anger again.

Where are we going? His tail wags again. Do we need more food? He didn't eat it all but I only got a little bit of bread-and-jam and they're making chicken downstairs I can smell it.

"It's time I had a word with Therrin," Wynne says tightly.

Dog stops, surprised, but Wynne doesn't stop and so he hurries to catch back up with her. Are you mad? Don't be mad, he whines. But Wynne doesn't answer, and Dog follows at her heels, worried and getting more worried when Wynne pushes open the door where his human and the king had been fighting to find she's there at the table with her face in her hands, crying.

Where is he? Dog growls, pressing close to Therrin's side. I will bite him very hard.

"No," she says, choked and puffy-eyed. "It's not Alistair, it's… oh _Wynne,_ I…" And then it comes out in a rush that Dog doesn't entirely understand, about lyrium and Cullen and love and the Tower, but he does understand that she is very unhappy and that she has done something bad.

But with every tearful word Wynne is looking less and less like she wants to strangle Therrin and more and more just tired. "At least you have some idea of the magnitude of what you've done," Wynne says at last when Therrin stops to blow her nose. "His entire adult life has been at the Tower, you know. Taking him away from it to make him a Grey Warden is going to be a terrible shock."

Therrin shakes her head, scratching Dog's ears absently. "I'm not making him a Grey Warden, not unless he wants to be. I just… I couldn't let them take him," she says, and her voice goes all broken a second before she makes it steady again. "But he's got time to decide now, what he wants to do. I don't even know if he's coming with me; I haven't… we haven't talked."

Wynne is watching her, frowning. "I see."

"I'm sorry," Therrin continues on, stroking Dog's head when he rests it on her lap. "For leaving you without a second without any warning. I didn't know about Amaranthine at all. And I'm sorry that there's a new Knight Commander. I know it might take getting used to but I know Harrith, a little bit, and he's not some crazy mage-hating zealot, at least."

Wynne looks a little impatient, and a little amused. "You speak as though you've forgotten I used to work with Greagoir. In comparison, Harrith isn't likely to be anything I can't handle."

Therrin rubs at her eyes, frowning, and Dog is relieved to feel her going back to normal. Dog likes normal; normal is much better than crying. "I thought that's why you were so angry over… over Cullen, and that he might leave."

Wynne smells sad, then, like a bottle of tears being opened, but she doesn't cry. She just looks at Therrin a moment, unhappy. "I'm angry abou— Therrin, he's my son," she says finally and it seems to Dog like she is setting down something heavy. "Of course I'm not happy. I'm also very worried for his safety; neither of the options presented him are good ones and I'm afraid that his life's just become much harder."

But Therrin's got stuck on the first bit of it and is staring at Wynne looking a bit like she might cry again. Don't cry, Dog whines. Please? "Cullen's your…" She swallows, hard. "Your son?"

Dog scratches behind one ear. Well, he says. That makes sense.

Therrin still looks stricken. "I didn't know."

Wynne looks a little impatient again, but Dog thinks she doesn't really feel it. She only seems relieved. And relieved is better than angry, and much much better than very angry and going-to-shout-at-Therrin. "You couldn't have known. I didn't know myself until… rather recently. I thought I might have some time to adjust to the knowledge; I didn't know he'd be leaving so abruptly. But it's not important," she says firmly. "What _is_ important is that he gets through this in one piece. Lyrium withdrawal is no easy thing. You've seen what can happen."

Therrin nods, and she smells worried so Dog presses close in reassurance.

"We'll have to find out as much about it as we can," Wynne continues, looking very serious. "And then it'll be up to you to see him safely to the other side of this."

"I will," Therrin says immediately, and Dog's ears perk because that's her alpha-voice and when she uses it people pay attention and things get done.

Which generally means bones after, and fetch. Dog approves of this.

"He doesn't know, does he?" Therrin asks, very quiet.

Wynne doesn't look at either of them. "No. Greagoir never saw fit to tell me outright; I doubt he'd tell Cullen. And it's not something we've discussed." She gives a little shake. "But this isn't our primary concern. For the moment—when are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Wynne blows out a breath. "That isn't much time. And you'll have things to… I'll tell Dagna to look into it," she says, resolved. "I think she's got half the archives memorized by now. You really do love him, don't you?" she asks, looking at Therrin like _measuring_.

Therrin looks tired. "Yes."

"Hmm." Wynne shakes her head, thoughtful and smelling like laughing and crying both at once, which doesn't make much sense to Dog. "I suppose stranger things have happened. Life is… funny, sometimes." She sighs. "But this isn't the time. Come on. I imagine you've got to pack, and I've got to find Dagna. At least she has the sense not to climb in the archives."

Therrin pushes out of her chair to head for the door and Dog wags his tail as he follows her, because he doesn't know anything about where they are going but has the feeling that the getting there part might be an adventure.

Dog likes adventure.

-oOo-

The strange bed is uncomfortable. And Cullen is tired—so tired he aches with it, so tired his eyes feel sore—but instead of falling asleep he is staring at the ceiling, feeling deeply out of place.

Bad enough they'd taken his templar armor (though the new Knight Commander had looked ill at ease and told him to keep his sword: _these are dangerous times and I'll not turn a man out into the world unarmed_). Bad enough they'd formally renounced him. Turning him out of his own quarters was just that little bit too much, unexpected enough to throw him off the last of his balance and leave him completely unsettled.

Now for the last hour, he'd been too exhausted to sleep but lying obediently on a too-stiff bed in a room that smells like nothing familiar.

Enough, he thinks, dimly, and rolls out of bed. Enough. He walks the distance down the circle hallway blind, startling Therrin when he pushes into her room. "Don't mind me," he says faintly, because she's packing and he really shouldn't interrupt.

Everything feels so heavy.

Falling into Therrin's bed is a relief, because it's soft and unmade and smells a bit like paper, and without giving it a moment's thought he kicks off his boots, pulls the blankets over his head and shuts out the world. He's halfway asleep within seconds but alert enough to feel the bed dip when she sits down and carefully pulls at the edge of the covers, and when he opens his eyes she looks worried. 

"Are you…" Therrin looks pained. "I know this is a stupid question, but are you all right?"

Cullen considers a moment. "I don't…" I don't know if I am or not, he means to say, but what comes out is, "I don't know how to be a Grey Warden." She freezes. "I trained as a templar; I've only… only ever been a templar," he explains dully. "Trying to turn around and become a Grey Warden—"

"No, no," she interrupts, pushing back the blanket to see him properly. "You don't have to. I didn't invoke the Right of Conscription. You're not bound to be a Grey Warden. You can do whatever you want, now." At his blank expression, she continues, "It was the only thing I could think of to keep him from taking you to Aeonar."

"I don't have to be a Grey Warden?" he repeats, feeling deeply relieved.

"No," she reassures him immediately.

He swallows thickly. "Do you want me to be one?"

She doesn't quite laugh, the sound small and bitter. "No."

He thinks this new information over. "Good."

They're quiet for a moment, weariness dragging Cullen down slow, and at last she says quietly, "I'm very sorry for all this."

"Don't be," he manages, closing his gritty eyes. "You couldn't have known they'd… " He gives up on explanations and settles for honesty, and says, "I'm very tired right now."

He feels her fingertips brush over his forehead, softly. "I'll let you get some sleep." The bed shifts again as she moves away and on impulse he curls an arm around her waist, not quite ready to let go.

"You can stay," he says wearily, half muffled into her side, and it strikes him as foolish because it's her room, he can't give her permission to stay in her own room. But maybe it's not her room anymore, just like his room isn't his.

It's too much to think about. In any case she's shifting again, kicking off her shoes to slip under the blankets beside him, arms coming around to circle his shoulders. "Rest," she says, fingers absently working, rubbing the knots of tension along his spine. "Just rest. I'll be here."

Cullen's too tired to answer. He nods and listens to the sound of her heartbeat thrumming steadily under his ear, and with a long, final sigh, he gives in to sleep.


	23. The World Abundant

Cullen wakes to morning like honey, light slanting in golden-warm and soft through the window as consciousness drags him slowly from sleep. When he opens eyes he feels rested, finally actually rested, the awful feeling that the soul-deep exhaustion would never go away banished entirely.

The thought quickly becomes a distant second in priority at the muzzy realization that he's still in Therrin's bed and that she's sleeping beside him with her back to his chest, as peaceful as though it's the most normal thing in the world. Without warning, the events of yesterday—was it yesterday? Time feels unreliable, lately—all come clattering back in a chaotic jumble that leaves him tired again. The king. The Chantry. Amaranthine.

With a silent sigh, he extricates himself from the tangle of blankets and Therrin's legs, careful not to wake her and quiet as he can be in the little bathroom, splashing water onto his face and noticing dully that he needs to shave. But all his things are back in his room (which isn't even his anymore, he remembers), and not knowing what else to do he heads back for bed, and Therrin.

The blankets are warm and she's warmer; he burrows down closer automatically and she reaches over to pull his arm back around her. "I don't want to get up," she protests, vaguely petulant. "You can't make me."

Not that he'd try. This is all too new, too uncertain and wonderful to let go. He smooths back a wild tangle of hair from her face and she smiles, not opening her eyes, morning light golden on her lashes. "Wynne might come after you with ice water again."

She grins, nose wrinkling. "You didn't have a problem with it last time."

"Well, no," he says reasonably, and she laughs, bumping against him and then nestling closer. There's a faint, brief moment of alarm—something in his brain crying _not allowed, not allowed, what are you _doing?—but it fades quickly under the iron remembrance that everything is different, now, for good or ill. There will be no superior coming in, furious and disapproving, no expectation that he watch, always watch, and never touch. Therrin herself is no help at all, idly tracing a fingertip over the bones of his wrist and pressing back against him for warmth, which all seems innocent.

But it doesn't feel innocent, and he shifts away the slightest bit in vague embarrassment at his body's automatic response, clearing his throat. "When are we leaving? I should have been packing instead of sleeping so long."

Therrin goes tense in an instant. "About that." He can see her throat work in a hard swallow, and concern starts bleeding up through his mind. "You aren't bound to be a Warden. I'm the only one who has to go to Amaranthine," she explains, trying too hard for nonchalance to really pull it off. "You're free to go wherever you want."

Cullen frowns. "You're not taking me with you?"

"No," she says, and he pulls away automatically, indignant. She shakes her head and says, "That's not what I mean," and he stops. Therrin takes a deep breath, her shoulders prodding against his chest for a moment. "I have to go to Amaranthine," she repeats. "You don't. You can do… whatever you want, wherever you want."

He can feel his frown deepen. "And what if I want to go with you to Amaranthine?"

Not that he knows anything about Amaranthine at all save that she'll be there. That alone is a bright thread of light in a wild and foreign darkness, something to hold to, a beacon to follow.

Some of the tension seems to ease from her body. "I don't want you to think you have to go just because I'm going. You have choices. You've got a whole world of options." She goes back to tracing his wrist, trailing a fingertip up the lines of his hand and over his callused palm. "If you want to come to Amaranthine with me, then of course I'd want you to. But you don't have to."

Relief overtakes the concern in his mind and he relaxes. "I've never been there," he admits, considering.

Her answer comes out a little rough. "Neither have I."

Cullen frowns again. "He's sending you to live somewhere you've never even been before?"

She nods but the little sigh after only betrays her worry. Years of training rear their heads at once, reminding him that mages aren't supposed to travel alone. "Then I'm going," he says, considering. "Wardens mainly fight darkspawn, don't they? They don't know anything about guarding mages." From themselves, or from demons, or from the world, or the world from them. "You'll need a tem—" He stops, because what she needs is a templar and he isn't one anymore, and the realization sucks the breath from him all at once.

She holds onto his arm, muttering stubbornly, "They can't take away your training, you know. You'll still be able to do it all, even without…"

"Lyrium," he finishes flatly.

"Yes." She shifts back into him and he doesn't pull away. "I've seen it done," she continues doggedly. "I know it's possible." Cullen makes a noncommittal noise, only just too well-mannered to tell her that she must have been mistaken. He can adapt to living without templar talents. If it comes to it, he still knows how to swing a sword, and sometimes that's all that matters.

But for now, Therrin is warm and here in his arms, apparently oblivious to his body's insistent clamoring that they're in bed together, and very close, and that perhaps he might consider doing something about it this time. "Do you want to go with me to Amaranthine, then?" she asks, hopeful.

"Yes." When she smiles at that, he amends, "Well. Not right this minute."

Her smile goes roguish. "Good." She reaches backward between them, tugging blindly at the laces to his trousers.

Ridiculous that such a little action would send a jolt of want through his veins and make his breath hitch, but there's only a moment to consider it before the laces come free, and because she's still grinning like she's getting away with something he leans in to kiss along her neck, a slow line along the curve to her shoulder. The little pleased sounds she makes in response do nothing to beat back his sudden urge to chuck responsibility out the window and stay in bed all day, but… "I have to pack," he manages to murmur against her skin.

"You're packed." Therrin says as his hands start working at the fastenings of her robe. "We didn't know where… um…" It sounds like she's finding it hard to concentrate, and that makes it harder for him to concentrate, but he manages to work it free and slip his hand in beneath her robe. "We didn't know where you'd go but… but thought since you were… were going somewhere…" She pulls him free of his trousers and brushes her fingertips against his length.

It's an effort to bite back a groan, but he manages it. "We?"

"Wynne," she explains. "And me."

"Oh," he says, uselessly. "That was nice of you."

Therrin laughs, unexpectedly wry. "You're very polite for a man with his hands inside my robes." And then she twists, pushing him away and rolling over and further until his back is pressed to the bed and she rests on his chest with her mouth at his throat.

"Is that…?"

She stops, raises her head. "Hmm?"

"Um," he manages, and Maker it's hard to think like this. "What?"

Therrin snickers, faintly, and sits up to pull her robes over her head, tossing them on the floor and retreating back under the blankets immediately. "It's cold out there," she complains, tugging at the hem of his shirt until he leans forward enough to yank it off himself, the feel of the cool air only making her skin seem warmer against his. It could be argued, he thinks dimly, that if it's cold they shouldn't be shedding clothes like this, but he's in no mood to protest, and anyway, his hands have found her hips and apparently she wasn't wearing anything under the robes.

That's a nice surprise. It's a nicer surprise when she reaches down again, gripping him more firmly and stroking and smiling down at him in wicked amusement at the moan he makes in response. "It's not funny," he protests faintly, hoping that she doesn't stop and unable to keep his hips from jerking reflexively at her touch.

"No," she concedes, bending to settle onto his chest and he can feel her, just there, heat and invitation and if she'd just shift an inch back and down, that would be perfect. As her mouth finds his he wants both to get on with it and drag it out forever all at once, little shocks of pleasure along his skin making it hard to breathe until there's a quick double-tap knock at the door, and Wynne walks in.

"Therrin, I… oh dear."

To her credit, Therrin doesn't squeak in surprise. Instead she clutches covers tight around them both, dropping her head onto Cullen's shoulder, shaking with shock and then abrupt, silent laughter. Cullen wonders vaguely if it's actually possible to die of embarrassment, feeling heat flood into his cheeks and wishing he could melt through the floor.

"Hi, Wynne," Therrin manages cheerily. "Are we leaving yet?"

Fortunately when Cullen dares a glance toward the doorway Wynne's covering her face with a hand and they don't have to go through the torment of actually looking at each other. He's fairly sure he wouldn't survive the indignity.

"I didn't think he'd try to go without me," Therrin goes on when Wynne doesn't say anything. "I'm, you know, the Warden."

"Therrin," Wynne begins, sounding exasperated. "Two minutes. Get dressed. Everyone's in the dining hall getting ready to go." There comes a sound like a sigh of impatience, though Cullen isn't looking. "On second thought _one_ minute, or I'm sending Oghren to fetch you. We've things to go over before you leave."

Therrin nods, face still buried in his shoulder, shaking again with laughter as the door swings closed. "Well," she says, sitting back and clearing her throat, face scarlet and eyes sparkling. "That was mortifying."

"Oh, Maker," is all Cullen can say by way of agreement. Why hadn't they locked the door?

But Therrin's mouth is twitching with suppressed mirth, eyes raking over him in frustration. "I was having fun," she complains, shaking her head and balancing on her hands again, leaning in for a kiss that lingers only a second before she moves down, quick, light kisses in a line like a skipping-stone down his chest and lower and his fists clench in the blankets and he half-sits in surprise when she takes him into her mouth, just for a moment, something unintelligible sputtering from his mouth that means _what are you _doing? and _oh yes, _that.

Therrin leans back and gives a quick grin in response before sighing, a little plaintive. "I suppose we'll have to pick this back up later."

"You're the Warden," he reminds her, a little thickly because it's almost impossible to think like this. "They can't leave without you."

"No," she agrees, already sliding out of bed. "But Wynne really would throw me out of the Tower naked. Best not to chance it. Besides," she continues, businesslike as she tugs the discarded robe back down over her head, "it might be as much as four days to Amaranthine. Might as well enjoy our comforts while we can. If you want a bath before we go, you might take one now. You'll really miss hot, clean water after a couple days on the road."

Not a bad idea, Cullen thinks, except that he can think of several other things he'd rather do just then. But just as Therrin's fastening up her robe the door swings open again, this time without any knock at all, and the red-bearded dwarf is in the doorway, grinning widely. "I was told to get you up and at 'im, but looks to me like you've got it covered."

Cullen flushes again and pulls the blanket up to his waist, but Therrin just shakes her head, reaching for a pair of boots. "Hang on, I'm coming."

Oghren's grin widens into a leer. "That so? You might see to your boy; looks like he's about to explode."

"Oghren."

"I'm just saying."

They leave after that, and Cullen doesn't wait for anyone else to come looking. He makes the world's fastest retreat into the bathroom, and it takes the entirety of a bath for him to regain any semblance of composure.

The word _later_ ringing in his ears like a promise does nothing to help.

-oOo-

_A couple things to go over_, indeed.

Therrin sorts through the stack of papers and envelopes Oghren hands her, making mental notes as she makes her way down the hall. There's a page with _Read This First_ written at the top; she scans it quickly.

_Therrin,_

_Dagna and I have compiled all we know about lyrium addiction and withdrawal into the envelope sealed in red. You'll need to read it as soon as possible to be prepared. Medicines and what ingredients we've available have been prepared in case you've a need of them in Amaranthine. _

_In the envelope sealed in green is a letter for Cullen, to be given to him at one of two points, at your discretion: once he's fully recovered from lyrium withdrawal or as soon as it becomes certain that he will survive it, and not a day before. I won't have him burdened with news of his parentage when he has troubles enough to weather as it is. I trust you can keep the knowledge to yourself for the time being. With any luck you won't have to hold your silence long._

_In the event that he does not make it through the withdrawal process with his mental faculties intact, inform Alistair immediately. We've discussed the matter; he will take the next necessary steps. _

_In the unsealed envelope are papers officially granting you leave of the Circle, just in case you need them. In these matters, I find, it's best to be cautious. Particularly in light of the Grand Cleric's interest in you, it would be wisest to take all possible steps against being mistaken for an apostate. _

_There are papers for your ward, as well, and his phylactery is being sent to Denerim as a matter of proximity and practicality. Alistair has, at my request, written a letter to the appropriate authorities explaining this rather unusual turn of events, and with his royal signature and seal, the matter is official: Stephen is yours._

_This is more for my own sake than yours, you realize. You moping around the Tower was bad enough; Stephen would be unbearable. I far prefer my meals intact._

_Do take care of him, and of Cullen, and of yourself. I said it to you once, remember: you can take a mage out of the Circle, but you can't take the Circle out of a mage. You will always have a home with us, should you need it. _

_Make us proud. _

_Wynne_

"You all right?" She looks up to find Oghren watching her.

_The next necessary steps. Stephen is yours. _And twisting like a blade: _In the event that he does not make it… _Therrin takes a breath and realizes she hasn't answered. "Yes," she manages, at last. "I'm fine." Too much depends on her being fine to be anything less.

It seems like everyone is assembled at the long table, a flurry of odd familiarity in Therrin's mind watching Wynne and Alistair sit and talk, Oghren dropping like a boulder into a chair nearby and Leliana patting the open space beside her with a welcoming smile. "Amell. I hear you are traveling soon."

For some reason she's nervous, ridiculously so, and though she's not hungry at all she sits and spoons porridge onto her plate anyway. "This morning, yes." Not nervous, she realizes with a sinking feeling. Homesick. Already.

"Well of course I am going with you," Leliana says, offhand. "I have never been to Amaranthine before; it sounds quite pretty. And not a woman in sight among the king's guards. You should not have to endure the company of men so long." Her lips quirk into a teasing smirk. "You need me."

"I didn't invite you along," Alistair protests without any real annoyance.

"I invited myself," Leliana informs him primly.

"Well, isn't _that_ familiar."

Therrin can't help but smile then, just a little, but the expression falls a bit when Bann Teagan arrives and sits in the place across from her, looking just the slightest bit uncomfortable. "Good morning."

There are greetings all around, and Therrin answers automatically even as she pokes half-heartedly at her breakfast in order to have something to do. But Teagan he clears his throat discreetly, and when she glances up he's looking at her, hesitant and a little ill at ease. "Forgive me, my lady—"

"Therrin," she corrects, uncomfortable. "It's just Therrin."

He looks faintly relieved, at that. "I was hoping you would permit me to accompany you to Amaranthine," he says carefully. "I can't help but believe myself the cause of some of this trouble, and given the circumstances, it seems you could use another sword on the road. I would be… relieved at the chance to ensure you get to safety."

Which is far more than anyone could expect of him, and Therrin knows it, but her discomfort is only getting worse and she doesn't quite know what to do. Still, everyone's watching her, waiting for her to make a decision.

Well. That's familiar, too.

"Of course," she says at last, hoping as always that this blind decision is the right blind decision. "Thank you, Bann Teagan."

He smiles a little, at that. "Just Teagan, please. And thank you. Hopefully the journey will provide an opportunity for me to discuss some issues of propriety with our king," he says, the faintest grumble in his tone. "Eamon seems to have neglected addressing the finer points of speaking in mixed company," he finishes with a meaningful look at Alistair.

Alistair blinks. "Mixed… oh, you mean when I said you were thinking with your dangly bits. Sorry about that."

Therrin coughs to hide a laugh and gets Leliana's elbow nudging her in the ribs. Teagan merely looks exasperated, and that's when Cullen walks in, eyeing them all a little warily and sitting down in the nearest vacant chair. Not too close, which may be for the best, Therrin thinks. There's more than enough potential for discomfort as it is, with this group; a little distance might take the pressure off.

She doesn't have time to consider it too much longer because Stephen races into the room, shouting all the way and launching himself into her arms. "I'm going to Ama—Amar—I'm going with you!"

"I just heard." His merry grin is infectious and he practically buzzes with enthusiasm, wiggling in her lap. "Are you packed?"

"Yes! Dog helped."

"Dog?" Dog trots in, wagging his tail and looking pleased. Which means Stephen's packed two changes of smallclothes and an entire sack of bones, Therrin sighs mentally. Just as well they'll be in Amaranthine before the week is out.

But Stephen is frowning at Alistair. "Are you really a king?" he asks. And before he can answer: "You don't look like a king. Kings are supposed to wear crowns. Where's your crown?"

"Stephen," Therrin chides, but Bann Teagan is trying not to laugh and Alistair looks a little indignant.

"I have a crown. I left it in my other pants."

"Are you Therrin's brother?"

Alistair blinks twice, darting a glance at Therrin. "Uh… no."

"You have the same name," Stephen prattles on, making furrows in Therrin's porridge. "Leliana told me you're King Therrin but Therrin is a girl's name."

Now Alistair's definitely indignant. "It is _not_."

"It is too," Stephen insists.

"It's Theirin," Alistair corrects, dragging the word out slow. "It's not even the same word."

Stephen looks skeptical. "It sounds the same."

Alistair is incredulous. "Therrin, doesn't that child have a control rod, or something?"

"He's not a golem, Alistair." But the morning light is angling down on Alistair brightly and for the first time since he arrived she actually looks at him, not tear-blinded or preoccupied, and before she can tell Stephen to mind his mouth she blurts, "Alistair, what is that thing on your face?"

He looks affronted, rubbing his jaw. "It's a beard. It's very handsome, you know, everyone says so. I thought it would… you know. Help me look older."

Therrin can't help her own look of skepticism. She was raised around Irving and Greagoir, and so she knows what a beard looks like. This scraggly blond patch on his face doesn't come close. "That's a beard?"

Alistair looks sour. "Maker's breath, you sound just like my wife."

It's a joke, she knows it, but Therrin freezes anyway, heartsick in an instant and unable to breathe. Down the table, Oghren is snickering and Wynne is rolling her eyes; Bann Teagan looks pained and amused in equal measure, shaking his head, but Alistair seems to have frozen in place too, something painfully sad in his eyes for a moment that shuts out anything as light as mere embarrassment.

_You're going to be the death of me, Alistair_, Therrin thinks silently. "Hi," she begins, stretching his direction, extending a hand and taking charge. "Start over. I'm Therrin."

He takes it for the lifeline it is. "Alistair. Pleased to meet you."

Everything goes back into what passes for normal after that, gradually unwinding. Dog and Stephen chase each other around the table in glorious bursts of joy at the thought of adventure, Wynne pulls Cullen aside a moment to speak in private, and Leliana hums and runs her fingers through Therrin's hair, soothing.

Later, of course, there are goodbyes.

Dagna looks unhappy but pushes a knapsack of books into Therrin's hands—_in case you need something to read_, she says—and thanks her again for getting Greagoir to let her into the Tower, promising to write with updated results of her research. There are Therrin's students, shifting uncomfortably in a group and waving farewells, uncertain at the thought of someone leaving the Circle. There is Wynne, who seems quiet but squeezes her hands firmly, and between them a host of hopes and fears that lie unspoken, a murmured _take care_ that's loaded heavy with meaning.

Last, she says goodbye to the Tower. Trailing a little ways after the rest of the group, Therrin leaves the way she came, walking silent down the hallways with Dog at her side, trailing fingers along the stone walls and letting memories wash over her in waves.

There's a moment's symmetry when Cullen comes back to find her, something coming full circle and clicking into place. "Hi."

He doesn't answer at first, letting out a breath and looking up at the high ceiling, trepidation in his eyes. _This was my home too, and look what they've done to it. _"Are you going to miss it?" she asks, unthinking. "The Tower."

Cullen considers a moment. "Yes. It's been my home so long, I… yes. I'll miss it." But the day is young and there's much to do, and outside the great metal doors the world is beckoning. "Are you ready?" he asks.

Are you? Therrin almost asks. But instead she nods, squaring her shoulders and taking a breath.

Two thousand one hundred and twelve, she thinks bemusedly, there are two thousand one hundred and twelve steps in the Tower, and the hardest one is the last that carries you away. But Cullen's hand is on her back, steadying, and now because she can she loops an arm around his waist as they walk and holds on.

At the end of the stairs is the lake, the lapping sound of waves in all directions, the entire untamed world filling up her ears, and a bright ray of sunlight in her eyes, blinding and glorious like a benediction from heaven. Stephen and Dog go wild with joy and leap in play as the boat is packed for the crossing. A flock of birds wings its way across the sky as she watches Oghren and Alistair and Teagan speak, all of them looking more relaxed than before.

It's all very loud and bright and a little hectic, and for just a moment Therrin feels a little like she had leaving the Tower with Duncan: as though the whole world was too big, too wild, too _much_.

But that was then, and this is now, and she hardly feels like the same person at all.

Therrin eyes the rowdy group of those she loves with Cullen's hand still warm on her back. _I'm beginning to think You might have a sense of humor_, she thinks at the Maker. _An _odd_ sense of humor, but still._

The Maker, of course, gives no answer.

 

* * *

A/N: Credit for the line about the control rod goes to the ever-fabulous CJK.


	24. The Seaward Road

It takes the rest of the morning in the little settlement that had sprung up around the Spoiled Princess to get resupplied. Predictably enough, Alistair had sprinted from Denerim without so much as a change of socks, much less provisions for traveling with a small army, and they can't make for Amaranthine without preparations.

Circus, Therrin corrects herself with more than a little trepidation, watching Leliana admire a length of ribbon and Alistair perk up at the sight of the shopkeeper's cheese. Not an army, a circus. Dog is running in circles with Stephen right behind, hollering and laughing and sticking his nose into everything; Teagan and Oghren are discussing something she can't quite hear, but they both look relieved to be out of the Tower. The shopkeepers are trying not to be too obvious about gawking at the king, at her staff, at the half-dozen royal bodyguards that keep darting looks into every corner, ready at any moment for trouble.

The entire thing's a bustling mess, noises coming from every direction into a generally cheerful muddle. The only exception is Cullen, who's said exactly two words since they left the Tower, those two words being "excuse me," when he inadvertently got in someone's way. Therrin runs her fingers over the edge of a folded cloak, watching Cullen sidelong and trying not to worry.

Not that she can blame him for feeling out of place—quite the opposite—but she doesn't know that standing uncertain on the fringes of everything is going to help. Part of her still can't quite believe that they're here, outside the Tower, both of them.

Fretting isn't doing anything to get them closer to actually getting on the road, and so Therrin falls back on habit: running lists through her head of actions that need to be taken, in order, steps one and two and three and she can dwell on all this later. "I'll take it," she says to the expectant shopkeeper, pushing the cloak over his counter and glancing again at Cullen. "Do you have anything in the way of armor?"

-oOo-

It's afternoon by the time they actually make it to the road, supplies loaded up on the horses, packs and people at the ready.

And then Alistair heads south. It's a few moment's confusion before anyone bothers to explain to Therrin that the northern road is flooded and that when they'd been headed to the Tower it was nearly impassable and getting worse. South it is.

No one really seems bothered by it—at least not openly—but it's just one more thing nagging at her. Without really meaning to she hangs toward the back of the group, keeping an eye on Stephen as he sits atop Oghren's pony wearing a bucket for a helmet and grinning over at Cullen.

It was odd enough seeing Cullen out of armor; seeing him in different armor is an entirely new level of odd. Maker above, why'd it have to be splintmail?

"You all right?" When Therrin wasn't watching Oghren had fallen into step beside her. "You don't look so hot."

"I'm fine. Thinking," she answers.

Oghren glances over his shoulder at the retreating Tower. "You're not pining for home already, are you?"

"No, of course not." Though it's better not to look. She'll look back later when she's sure it's out of sight. "Just… thinking." When Oghren doesn't answer and the silence stretches out expectantly, Therrin scuffs at the dirt. "I didn't think about going back to the Tower as some sort of… I don't know. Cowardice. Hiding from everything."

Oghren makes a thoughtful noise. "He say that?"

"Alistair did, yes." Her staff prods against her shoulder blades and she considers using it as a walking-stick. "He wasn't wrong."

"Well," Oghren begins, considering. "No, he wasn't wrong. Doesn't mean it was the right thing to say."

"No," Therrin concedes. "I don't know… I'm not sure what I should have done instead, I suppose." She squints up at the sky, bright blue and terribly wide. How had she forgotten how big it was? "All I thought about after… after Alistair, and the battle, and everything… was getting home."

Oghren nods. "You did what you had to do to get through it." At her nod, he finishes. "And now you have."

"I suppose so."

Oghren shifts, glancing out at the trees lining the road a moment before turning his attention back to Therrin. "I crawled into a bottle. Alistair locked himself in his office. You went home. We all do it. Doesn't make it right, and doesn't make it wrong. But." He lets the word hang heavy in the air, dropping his voice so Therrin leans in closer to listen. "I am sodding glad you're back among the living, Warden. He needs you. And not in that Tower."

Therrin frowns, alarmed. "What do you mean?"

Oghren grimaces vaguely at the dirt. "I mean politics can be a rotten business, and the number of people he can really trust he can count on one hand and still have fingers left."

Trepidation stirs in the back of her brain, unsettling and cold as she counts them off. "You. Bann Teagan. Arl Eamon." Oghren makes the faintest of dissenting noises, looking deliberately casual. Therrin feels her eyebrows rise. "No?"

"Put it this way," he says. "When have you ever seen Eamon do anything 'for the good of Ferelden' that wasn't what Eamon wanted to do in the first place, huh? And you got him, now. Left his arling a broken wreck and makes his little brother stick around to pick up the pieces," he continues, barely above a murmur. "He's got a pretty wife back at home expecting his baby—who's probably going to be his only heir, 'cause he isn't getting any younger—and he can't be bothered to go visit. He hasn't left Denerim once since the coronation." He glances up at her significantly. "Now, I'm no expert on the touchy-feely stuff, but something about that seems sodding wrong to me."

Unease is thick in her throat, making it hard to swallow. "You think Eamon… what _do_ you think?"

Oghren shakes his head a little and Therrin mimics his nonchalance. "Don't know yet," he admits finally. "Just that something doesn't add up. Keep your ears open, would you? He needs someone around who's got his back. He had yours, when you needed him. He about killed the horses to get to you in time."

She nods absently, already weighing the implications. "I will."

"Good." He squints upward and shudders. "Don't think I'm ever really going to get used to that." A crooked grin tugs at his mouth. "But this sure feels sodding familiar."

Therrin can't help an answering smile. "It does, doesn't it?"

Oghren chuckles. "First time we get the chance, you and I are going out and seeing how fast we can get kicked out of a tavern."

That, Therrin thinks, sounds like a plan, because she half-suspects she's never needed a drink more badly in her life.

-oOo-

The odd little band isn't organized, and it bothers Cullen almost more than being out of the Tower in the first place. At the Circle among the templars there was order, always, a rigid set of guidelines to move within that constrained and defined his life.

This is incredibly, uncomfortably different. He's fairly sure the king's in the lead, here, but not completely sure, because from what he can tell, Therrin's in charge of the Wardens, but King Alistair's in charge of… well… Ferelden, and then there's General Oghren and Bann Teagan both in there, and he's not sure how they fit in at all.

As inconspicuously as he can, he pulls Oghren aside and asks about the chain of command. Oghren begins to answer and stops, eyeing the group. "The chain of… huh." He tugs at his beard, frowning a little in thought. "The chain of command is sodding twisted, I'll give you that. Try not to do anything stupid and you'll be alright." He gives Cullen a significant look. "She brought you into this, so she must think you're good to have along. Just keep your eyes peeled; the Warden draws trouble like a magnet."

Cullen blinks in surprise. "Therrin?"

"Both of them," Oghren grunts. "But yeah, mostly her."

Trouble, Cullen thinks. "Do you mean demons?"

To his surprise, Oghren laughs. "No, I mean _crazy people_. 'Warden, ignore the darkspawn and deliver my mail. Warden, help me sort out my love life. Warden, I can't find my ass with both hands and a map.' Demons are the least of your worries, believe me."

Cullen frowns, almost sure that Oghren's having him on, but just at that moment the king pops his head out from a nearby tree, grinning like a boy who's slipped away from his tutors.  "You two. Come here."

Oghren's face twists in skepticism. "What're you—"

"Just come on. This'll only take a minute." As the two of them follow, Cullen gets the odd feeling that the king is hiding something, and the feeling isn't diminished by the sight of Therrin standing in a clearing some ways from the road.

She looks as though she's been expecting them. "Alistair?"

"Right." The momentum wavers a little bit as Alistair turns to Cullen. "So you know about templar talents, and training… well. Of course you do." And Alistair looks a little sheepish for a half-second, rubbing the back of his neck and looking across the clearing at Therrin. "Thing is, you really don't need lyrium to do it. I left the Chantry before I took final vows, you know; I've never taken lyrium a day in my life. But Therrin thought you didn't really believe it was possible so she's asked me to prove it, so you could see for yourself."

Cullen frowns, years of training clamoring in his mind _impossible_ and worse, _disrespectful, you're making a mockery of all we were taught_, but before he can say anything Alistair walks away, marking out a spot some paces from Therrin and shifting in place. "Right," he says again. "Have at me then; cast something."

As Cullen stares in disbelief Therrin hesitates, and grins, and doesn't cast anything. The king laughs. "You were going to zap my ass, weren't you?" Therrin laughs instead of answering, and Alistair takes it as confirmation. "You were! Ha. I knew it. Come on, cast. Something big."

Therrin rolls her eyes and sends a weak little ball of lightning jumping from her hand. It doesn't so much shoot at the king as it meanders his general direction, flickering mutedly.

It's almost too surreal to believe that the king of Ferelden is standing there telling a mage to throw spells at him, but to Cullen's surprise he does manage to dispel it, and instead of taking it seriously at all, he's laughing. "Oh, come on. Is that the best you can do? You're supposed to be the most fearsome mage in Thedas! What are you trying to do, make my hair stand on end?"

When Therrin darts Cullen a glance it seems uneasy. But Alistair isn't done. "I said something _big_. A real spell they'll feel all the way in Denerim. I know you can do better than that. You can't tell me you forgot how to be a mage all that time living in the mages' Tower."

Absurdly, Cullen half-expects Alistair to follow this up with _unless you're chicken_, but he feels the Veil give way a split-second before the temperature in the clearing plummets and Therrin casts, blank-eyed as white billows of cold build themselves around her hands. He shivers, and doesn't know if it's just from cold, but Alistair seems absolutely unconcerned, all but whistling with nonchalance as the spell blooms around them. Within seconds the air goes freezing sharp in the clearing as the magic pulls deep and grows, huge and cold as the wind begins to hiss across his face.

Until Cullen feels a familiar, oppositional force of will. It's almost too fast to follow but Therrin falls backward with a muffled cry as though she's been rammed in the chest, the spell dies immediately and the Veil reweaves, and Cullen's stomach lurches when Alistair draws his sword and heads for Therrin.

"Toast," the king says lightly, tapping the flat of his blade against the side of her upturned knee with each word for emphasis. "You're toast, toast, toast."

Cullen can feel it, even though it doesn't make sense. It shouldn't be possible but Therrin's utterly drained of mana. She sits up slowly, holding her head. "Not a full day," she complains, voice thick. "Not even five hours and I'm already on my ass in the mud. Dammit, Alistair."

Alistair looks as though he's trying not to smile too widely. "This was your idea."

She isn't getting up, and Cullen steps closer, worry niggling at his brain. "It was a stupid idea," she grits out.

Alistair raises an eyebrow. "Come on, then, try and cast something."

"I can't."

"You haven't even tried."

She drops her hands from her face and her fingers flex uselessly, testing. Nothing. The Veil stays closed, Therrin's attempt to draw power not budging it at all. "I can't," she repeats, eyes screwed shut as though she's fighting a headache. "I couldn't light a candle right now."

"Good!" Alistair answers cheerily before turning back to Cullen. "See? I've never had any trouble getting it to work. Just try not to hit her with it on accident. Makes her cranky."

"I'll show you cranky," Therrin mutters darkly, massaging her temples. "I thought you were just going to disrupt the spell, not drain me entirely and leave me completely helpless in the middle of nowhere."

Alistair makes a dismissive sound and only looks amused. "Right. As though there aren't a half-dozen heavily armed men on hand who'd lay down their lives in a moment to save you from so much as a paper cut." Therrin only sighs. "Come on, toast," Alistair says after a moment, just a bit too brightly. "Even Leliana won't be able to distract all the bodyguards for long."

"Not even the good kind of toast," Therrin complains, pushing unsteadily to her feet. "With butter and jam. More like toast with _death_."

Alistair grins. "Toast with death?" Therrin wobbles, swaying, and Alistair almost reaches out, catching himself at the last moment and keeping his hands at his side, and Oghren's there beside her, trying not to laugh and helping keep her steady as she rubs at her forehead. "Toast with death," Alistair repeats, musing. "You hungry?"

"No," she insists, grumbling. Her stomach growls dissent.

"Come on," Alistair orders, walking ahead with Oghren following. "They had this blue sort of cheese at the Princess. All veiny and interesting."

"I am not… ugh." When Cullen steps to her side she blinks at him as though it's an effort. "What do you think?"

She looks hopeful and vaguely ready for disappointment at the same time, and so Cullen nods slowly, thinking. "I think it was… unexpected. But good to know."

_Impossible_, something growls in his mind, except that he's just seen it with his own two eyes, and so somewhere along the line he had been lied to, one way or another. They all had. It's not a pleasant thought. But Therrin's still beside him looking uneasy and so he puts a hand on her back solicitously, pushing the issue aside for later and walking back toward the others. "Are you all right?"

She laughs a little, thickly. "Fine. It's just really jarring. I'll be all right." She makes a face, reconsidering. "But I'm not eating any kind of cheese that's blue."

-oOo-

There's no way they're going to make it to Amaranthine in less than a week. That much becomes obvious before the first day's over, as they trudge a little ways off the road to make camp. It's a flurry of activity, loud and boisterous (though a good deal of that is Stephen's doing, still wearing his bucket-helm and waving a branch around like a sword, slaying imaginary dragons), and Therrin isn't terribly surprised when Leliana sidles over to help set up her tent with a knowing little smile on her lips.

"Am I cooking tonight?" Therrin asks idly, half-suspicious of the conversation to come.

"I don't believe so. You've been quiet today."

Therrin pulls the canvas taut, struggling to get it into place. "It's just strange, being back out. Traveling again."

Leliana makes a small, noncommittal sound, leaning in to help. "Your templar has been very quiet as well. And you know what they say about the quiet ones."

Therrin frowns, giving the heavy cloth a jerk. "That they don't make much noise?"

Leliana's laugh is soft and bright. "No. You are very fond of him, aren't you? Either that or he's incredibly good in bed."

Therrin chokes a little in surprise, looking up with a half-formed prayer in mind that no one is listening—not Cullen, not Stephen, and _please Andraste_ not Alistair—but no one seems to have heard. "Um," she begins, feeling ridiculously flustered. "It's… fine, go ahead, laugh. You may as well."

"I'm not laughing at you," Leliana offers, amused. "Well. Perhaps a very little. Therrin Amell, deflowerer of templars."

Therrin gives up wrestling with the tent to squeeze her eyes closed, sure that her cheeks are red and burning. "Leliana."

"They're going to start warning young men about you at the Chantry," Leliana continues, eyes sparkling. "They will have sermons on the evils of pride, and of the importance of duty, and then they'll hold up a drawing of you and tell the poor baby templars to stay well away. Which is no problem; you only want the more experienced ones anyway." And then she can't keep a straight face anymore and giggles, leaning her head in close to Therrin's.

"It isn't," Therrin manages, and can't finish.

"As long as he makes you happy," Leliana says warmly, sobering. "That's all that's important to me. Does he?"

She hesitates, trying to grasp for the right words to explain, unable to keep from glancing over at him as he stacks the collected firewood. "It's still so… new," she says. She doesn't want to say _fragile_.

Leliana seems to understand, smoothing a wrinkle in the canvas. "Your little one is very dear, isn't he?"

Therrin blinks at the abrupt change of subject, off-balance and uncertain. "Stephen? Yes. I can't believe he's still running in circles; I thought he'd have tired himself out by now."

"Well, boys," Leliana smiles, teasing. "All enthusiasm at the prospect of something new, yes?"

She's not just talking about Stephen; there's a wicked glint in her eye that makes that abundantly clear. "I suppose," Therrin answers warily, feeling another blush start creeping into her cheeks and blowing an errant lock of hair out of her eyes.

 Leliana cranes her neck to better see the rest of the camp, quiet for a moment. "He will bunk down with me, I think. He's already asked me for a story and he puts off heat like a campfire; it will be nice to have the warmth."

Her mouth is open, she realizes, and shuts it with a faint click, swallowing hard. "You don't have to do that, he's my responsibility."

Leliana grins, dimpling prettily. "Yes. But your Cullen has been sending you the most intriguing little glances all day when you weren't looking. I have the feeling you might be busy tonight." Before Therrin can formulate a response Leliana gives her a wink and an impish smile, heading toward the fire.

Dinner is uneventful but to Therrin it still seems odd, as though she's been jerked back in time. It feels like it did before, sitting around a campfire with Alistair and Leliana and Oghren with a Blight to stop, a thousand undone things to take care of, meandering the wild places of Ferelden on an impossible quest that really shouldn't ever have actually worked.

It's equally strange to sit shoulder-to-shoulder beside Cullen and have a meal. Such a silly thing in the scope of it all—she knows the taste of his skin at the hollow of his throat, the exact color of his eyes and the way his hair slips through her fingers—but they've never just sat together like this, with other people around and no one caring. For Therrin it's odd enough to border on the bizarre, and Leliana keeps smirking at her and it doesn't help at all. "How are you feeling?" she asks quietly, glancing at him sidelong and wondering if he feels the same frenetic buzzing that's thrumming along her veins. "With the lyrium, I mean, are you all right?"

He shifts slightly, looking at the fire. The awareness of his warmth beside her is doing strange things to her insides. "Fine," he answers, just as quietly. "Wynne gave me as much as she could find, and I shouldn't feel it much the first couple of days, I think." He gives her a searching look. "You?"

It doesn't register at first why he'd be concerned, until she remembers the demonstration. "I'm fine. It doesn't hurt, exactly." Therrin pulls at a scraggly blade of grass just to have something to do with her hands, fighting the absurd idea that everyone's staring at them. If anything, it's the opposite. Oghren and Teagan and Alistair are hunched over a deck of cards, a haphazard stack of coins growing between them, Alistair's bodyguards stand around the camp, looking out into the darkness, and Leliana's pulled out her lap-harp, plucking out a soft, sweet melody that sounds like a burbling stream.

Retreat, she thinks numbly, because her breath is catching in her chest and it's growing awkward to sit here beside him feeling like a specimen. Funny that it feels they've lived so long behind closed doors, restrained and secret and hidden. This new openness feels alien and uncomfortable.

"I'm going to bed," Therrin mumbles, standing up and not daring a glance at Cullen_. _"Just let me know when it's my turn for watch," she tells the nearest of the king's bodyguards.

He merely looks puzzled. "That isn't necessary, my lady."

She wavers a moment, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the tent and not come out and already feeling a squirm of guilt for leaving Cullen out here by himself. But the interior of the tent is familiar and offers a modicum of privacy, light filtering hazily through the canvas as she drops onto the bedroll and sighs into the blanket. There may have been one or two more surreal days in her life, Therrin thinks dully, but this one's edging up there in terms of general oddness. And all things considered, she shouldn't be lying in the near-darkness with her breath coming short and uneven, uncertain as some nervous apprentice.

Knowing it doesn't help at all. It seems like a small eternity before there's a rustling outside the tent and the flap opens, and Cullen ducks in looking as uncertain as she feels before he turns to refasten the canvas ties, shutting out the world.

Well. It's still a tent. There's only so much shutting-out canvas can be expected to do.

He reaches for the fastenings of his armor, frowning at them in puzzlement. It must be so different than wearing that heavy plate. "Here," Therrin says, rolling to her knees and reaching out to help.

She banishes the thought of why, exactly, splintmail's so familiar. This is different, this is Cullen and actually, really happening, and if she knows where to reach for buckles and edges it doesn't have anything to do with anyone else. It doesn't seem to take that long before the final piece is set aside, and he starts to say something but the sound of Oghren's laughter comes from nearby, raucous and loud, and it just serves as a reminder of how little privacy the tent really offers. When Cullen hesitates Therrin brings a finger to her lips, silent, and he nods in understanding.

And then, still silent, his mouth is on hers and the sash that keeps her robes together is being tugged at, the corselet coming away and discarded as his hands find her skin and pull her closer. And while Therrin's done this before and knows exactly how little sound the walls of a tent will muffle, it's a surprise how completely he takes to it, almost silent in the darkness and feeling unexpectedly large and warm in the little space.

With her back to the bedroll and his weight above her, there's a moment of hesitation. The specter of later still dances somewhere around them, gleeful and wanton and shivering up her skin. She shrugs out of her robes, only just able to make out the small flash of his smile in the dark, an expression that flickers and disappears against her mouth at the little tug of her hand on the back of his neck. She expects to get caught up in momentum, a current of desire to bear them onward as before, but instead he shifts to one side, not quite letting go and tracing a line down toward her navel that feels for all the world like a question written across her skin, with enough curiosity in it to make her stop, smiling.

The necessity of silence is almost a mercy, then, because she doesn't know that this is something they'd really want to explain to one another. She covers one of his hands with hers and guides it along, watching his face as he watches her fingers and learns, an inch at a time, inquisitive and careful. He comes to it with the same watchful gravity he gives everything else, determined and serious even as his breath starts coming faster, heat spreading across his skin as she reaches out to touch him in kind.

He doesn't stop being careful, exactly, but somewhere along the line they map one another out with hands and mouths, a silent exchange of _yes, there_ and _here_ and _please_ that makes words seem unnecessary, up until the final, desperate tug downward of _come here_ when they're both breathless and teetering at the brink.

The night is deep and quiet by the time they disentangle, and of course that's the moment that going through all that trouble to stay silent unravels. Cullen rolls over and knocks his armor over in a clatter that seems horribly loud in the hush of the camp, and it's an effort not to giggle and make everything worse. But beside her, Cullen's shaking with silent laughter, too, and she can't help but grin.

It doesn't last. Travel is wearying and the road that takes them away from the Tower feels very, very long. Therrin begins to drift off almost at once, pulling the blanket over her for warmth, and in the last few moments before she gives over to dreams she curls against Cullen's chest and doesn't feel far from home at all.


	25. The Emergent Revelations

Dog likes traveling. The open air, the thousand smells that tug his attention in every direction, the people. His human is first, of course, but Leliana is still generous with belly-scratches and Oghren still gives him nice big chunks of meat and two of the king's bodyguards are always ready to pet him and tell him what a good dog he is.

Dog knows he is a good dog, but he never gets tired of hearing it.

Stephen does not like traveling as much. He misses his friends, he misses regular breakfast, he is a little afraid of going and living somewhere he's never been before, but he is happier once Cullen puts him on his shoulders so he can see everything better, and he picks things out of the trees they pass and tosses them down for Dog.

Dog doesn't know what he's supposed to do with overwintered walnuts and budding leaves, but he does not tell Stephen to stop.

In the lead is the king, of course, and Therrin had been very clear about how bad it would be to bite him even a little so Dog ignores him entirely, trotting up instead to push his head under Leliana's hand and wag his tail when she scratches his ears. Dog's tail is getting a little tired from wagging so much, but he doesn't mind.

The king is complaining, and Dog is not surprised because the king has always liked to complain, and at least now it's the regular sort of complaining instead of the unhappy-at-Therrin sort which makes her unhappy which makes Dog unhappy.

Dog doesn't like to be unhappy.

But the king is squinting up at the morning sun and complaining at Teagan and Leliana, who are walking beside him and glancing at each other every now and then in a way Dog recognizes. "As though I could make it grow any faster," the king grumbles, oblivious. "I don't know what he expects me to do, exactly. Stand out in a field and order it to grow? It won't work, wheat doesn't have ears. Now if it was corn—"

Teagan makes a small, patient sound. "You didn't tell him that, I hope."

The king looks abashed, like Stephen after he explodes a dinner. "Well…"

"Alistair," Leliana laughs, still scratching, and oh, that's the spot right there and Leliana has better nails than Therrin and Dog can't keep his hind leg from thumping and almost falls over. "You can't just tell people no."

Alistair's face screws up in disbelief. "You're not seriously suggesting I tell people I'll go stand out in their fields and make crops grow."

"That isn't what I mean," Leliana amends, quitting scratching to tug her scarf back up from where the wind's made it slip. "Of course you mustn't give in to everything. But you will do much better for yourself to learn to say no in a way that does not sound like you don't care." When Alistair still looks skeptical, Leliana only smiles. "He can't expect you to do anything about the weather; that can't be why he brought it up in the first place, yes? But you can't just send him away. People want to be listened to, understood."

Alistair considers it a moment, forehead wrinkling.

"He is worried," Leliana continues. "He wants you to acknowledge that he is worried. If the crops fail, then it creates larger trouble. People will be hungry, farmers will become destitute, the shopkeepers who depend on the farmers' business will suffer. So you should express your concern so he knows you take him seriously, yes? Ask him what he intends to do about it so he will feel called to take action. And some time later, once the crop has come up—because it will, of course, it's simply been a long winter—have a message sent asking how the crops are faring so he knows you have not forgotten him."

Dog noses at Teagan's pocket in case there's a biscuit in there, but Teagan doesn't notice because he's looking at Leliana, all thoughtful. Dog sighs.

But Alistair is looking thoughtful too, though not at Leliana. "Huh."

"For all Ferelden has, her people are her greatest resource," Leliana adds mildly. "If they believe in their hearts that you are devoted to their well-being, they will give you their loyalty. It is one thing to capture the peoples' imaginations through daring and a great show of heroism; to earn their respect and keep it requires more tending them carefully and less in the way of stirring speeches before battle."

Teagan looks bemused. "Are you referring to Bressian's works? I remember reading something to that effect not long ago."

Leliana's cheeks flush slightly. "I am. He knew much of people," she answers, the tiniest bit defensive. "And all government is made of people, yes?"

Dog noses at her hand again and she pets him fondly, and so she doesn't see Teagan's glance of scarcely-restrained curiosity. "I wasn't aware lay sisters of the Chantry were taught political philosophy."

Leliana's mouth falls open a little at that, but Alistair jumps in, unthinking. "She hasn't always been a lay sister, you know, before that—"

"Oh, a deer!" Leliana cries, pointing down the road ahead. Everyone is looking (and there isn't a deer, Dog knows, he would have smelled it, but all the humans look anyway) and so no one sees Leliana's elbow jerk out and dig into Alistair's ribs, or his indignant frown before the expression of ire on Leliana's face makes him go silent. "Sorry," Leliana offers, not sounding really sorry at all. "I thought perhaps I'd seen something."

"Pity," Teagan says, still looking half-hopefully down the road. "I'd welcome the chance to do some hunting."

"So would… oh," Leliana sighs as the wind catches her scarf again and she stops. Teagan catches it before it can hit the muddy ground and holds it out like an offering and Leliana smiles. "Thank you."

Leliana is always nice and generous with pats when she's happy, Dog thinks, but when she takes the scarf from Teagan's fingers she smells very happy and her eyes are sparkling and Dog hopes that means more belly rubs.

"You are quite welcome." Teagan looks like he's going to say something for a moment and doesn't, clearing his throat instead. Finally: "Would you like to do some hunting, later? If we get the chance, of course. I haven't had the pleasure in some time."

"Oh," Leliana says, surprised. "Yes. I'd like that."

And then both of them are ignoring him which is boring, so he trots back to where Oghren and Therrin are walking together. But they're looking at Leliana and Teagan and giving each other significant glances and trying to hide sideways little smiles, and Dog thinks they are having an entire conversation without actually talking. Dog approves. "A week," Therrin murmurs, low enough only Oghren and Dog can hear.

Oghren grunts a little, cocking his head. "Nah. Two weeks, at least. Nobles, you know." Therrin grins, and Oghren raises an eyebrow. "Unless you've got some firsthand experience in that department I don't know about."

She laughs. "A week."

A game, Dog thinks, and Oghren snorts. "Loser picks up the tab."

"Done."

Therrin grins down at Dog and pulls a wrapped parcel of boar meat from her little pack and gives him the whole thing, and Dog wags his tail as he wolfs it down because he likes traveling, and he loves his human, and he definitely likes games.

-oOo-

Finding the campsite had been a stroke of luck, Teagan has to admit to himself, even though they'd stopped for the night a little earlier than he had expected. With the terrain getting hillier and the road more heavily forested, it was pleasant indeed to have come across a spot so easily defensible. The nearby creek and wooded little pond had been a pleasant enough discovery.

Or so he'd thought at the time.

Not that it's exactly unpleasant, now, far from it. But in the last couple of minutes the sound of feminine laughter has gotten louder, accompanied by splashing, and an altogether inappropriate curiosity is becoming quite insistent in his mind. Which is, of course, when Stephen slouches back to the camp, with Dog at his side looking watchful. "They sent me away," he complains without preamble, plopping dejectedly to the ground beside Cullen. "They're taking a bath, and I said they didn't have to because no one was going to make them and they just laughed."

Alistair looks as disgruntled as Stephen. "Not again."

Cullen frowns a little, not understanding. "Again?"

"They do this all the time," Alistair mutters sourly, yanking at the grass for emphasis. "Everywhere we go."

"Leliana said to go ask you where babies come from," Stephen grumbles, not looking curious at all about the subject until Alistair's eyes go wide and he begins to sputter.

"What?!"

"She…" Stephen frowns, as though he hadn't expected this but now suspects that something's up. "She said you must have figured it out."

It would be rude to laugh, incredibly rude, and so Teagan fights the urge to do just that, but Oghren cackles and uncorks a bottle as Alistair's face goes scarlet. "And yo… Lel… that's something for Therrin to tell you."

"She couldn't," Stephen says glumly. "She was laughing." He scoots on his bottom closer to Alistair, blinking up. "So where do they come from? Denerim?"

It's a priceless sight, Teagan thinks, to see the king of all Ferelden dumbstruck by a child's innocent question, and he can't help a silent chuckle even as Alistair squirms in discomfort.

"When a man and a woman love each other very much," Oghren begins, leering, "or like each other enough, or don't have anything better to do—"

"Oghren!" Alistair nearly yelps, horrified.

Oghren only snickers, holding out the bottle in offering to Teagan, who declines with a shake of his head. "Where do you think they come from, lad?"

Stephen scowls, wary that he's being made fun of. "I don't know."

"From the Fade," Cullen interjects calmly, and Stephen turns his way to listen. "People dream about their babies, and good spirits take them out of the Fade and leave them in your arms."

"Okay," Stephen says, mulling it over. "Can I go look at the horses?" Cullen nods and Stephen scrambles to his feet, Dog at his heels as he trots off to where the horses are tied.

Oghren is still snickering, leering at Cullen. "You do know that's not how it works, right?"

Cullen reddens and Teagan almost feels sorry for him, but Alistair's apparently relieved not to be the focus of Stephen's scrutiny anymore. "The Chantry isn't all that eager to jump into the specifics, you know, you might think you know but really have it all wrong."

"I know where babies come from," Cullen protests, indignant and flushing redder. "Name of Andraste, why is this even a question?"

A peal of laughter interrupts whatever Alistair would have said. Therrin, Teagan thinks, a little uncomfortable and the sound closer than before, and Leliana joins in, giggling brightly.

Alistair scowls. Cullen glances over his shoulder in the direction of the noise, looking uncertain. "What are they doing?"

Teagan's imagination is all too ready to fill in the blanks. "Probably just enjoying the chance to relax. I can't imagine roughing it like this is much fun for women."

Oghren snickers at that too, but he hasn't given up on Cullen yet. "You do know how bedding a woman works, right? Baby templars have to come from somewhere, you know."

"I'm not listening," Alistair says, scowling even more darkly. "However much I pay you, it's too much."

But if Alistair is mutinous, Cullen is horrified. "Yes, of course I do, and it's none of your business," he snaps, appalled.

"Are you sure?" Oghren presses, leering. "You know it only takes the once, right? You could be a father already."

All at once Cullen's flush drains into a sickly green, and his mouth's open but no sound is coming out, and then Teagan genuinely does feel a bit sorry for him. But there isn't time to think about it. In a rustle of leaves Leliana and Therrin are back, damp and pink-cheeked with their robes clinging wetly. "You don't have supper rea… Cullen, are you sick?"

"No," Cullen manages, waving a hand uselessly in a _please don't ask_ gesture. "I'm fine."

Therrin frowns, baffled. "What were you talking about?"

"Man things," Oghren rumbles gruffly, a grin twitching at his mouth. "You wouldn't understand."

Therrin looks skeptical. "Right." And with that the two women pick their way around the fire and sink to the ground, nearly close enough to be in each other's laps as Leliana starts running fingers through Therrin's wet hair, teasing out the tangles as she goes and whispering something in her ear that makes Therrin blush and laugh.

"I was thinking," Alistair says, frowning at the ground, "about shapeshifting."

Therrin looks expectant, but when nothing else is forthcoming, she asks, "Yes?"

"You'd said you learned shapeshifting," Alistair says, his expression gone hard to read. "Did you ever get any better at it?"

"I said I was trying to learn shapeshifting," Therrin says slowly. "But it's hard to be a spider."

Just like that, Teagan's more prurient interests die abruptly. A spider?

Oghren just looks amused. "A spider?"

"Well." Therrin frowns, looking almost as prickly as Alistair. "I did manage to get it for a little while, yes. But it was too strange. I couldn't keep track of all eight legs at once, and then I lost control of the web thing and… it isn't funny," she says, because Oghren is almost choking with laughter.

"Here," he says, and nudging Alistair with an elbow. "Give me some money."

After a moment's bemused search, Alistair hands over a little pouch.

"I will give," Oghren begins between laughs, looking into the pouch before offering it to Therrin, "I will give you _all_ this money if you do it again."

"Hey!"

"It was easier to be a mouse," Therrin says. "I'd rather not try to be a spider again."

"Shapeshifting?" Cullen looks deeply uncomfortable. "No one teaches that at the Tower."

"Of course not," Leliana chimes in, tucking hair behind her ears. "It is hard enough to run in armor as it is, yes? If the Tower were a menagerie you would need even more templars, and there would be bird-mages to catch, and wolf-mages and bear-mages and cat-mages, and it would be chaos."

Alistair takes a breath, cutting off whatever Cullen would have said next. "It could be useful. Right?"

"I… suppose?" Therrin frowns, looking rather uncomfortable herself and darting an uneasy glance at Cullen. "I can give it a shot."

"Yes. Do that," Alistair says, sounding relieved. Oghren offers him the bottle and Alistair takes three hearty swigs, grimacing at the taste.

Therrin drops her head into her hands and closes her eyes, concentrating. Cullen begins to look uneasy, shifting on the ground and watching her in consternation. "Easy, lad," Oghren rumbles, low and even.

After that it's a few quiet moments in which a lot more nothing happens. The fire crackles on and no one says anything, and Teagan watches Therrin's lips move soundlessly until she frowns as though in pain. "I can't—"

She disappears, abruptly, her robes falling to the ground in a damp pile without her in them.

All the color drains from Cullen's face and Alistair sits up in alarm, and Teagan's stomach lurches as he wonders what went wrong. There comes a squeak and the fabric shifts and a small nose peeks out from the abandoned neckline, whiskers twitching to and fro.

And Teagan is not a young or sheltered man and would readily admit to having seen some strange things in his life, but he has never seen anything quite so strange as Leliana's face softening as she bends and takes the little mouse into her palm. (A mouse who is, apparently, Therrin, and there's a twist of uneasiness in his gut at the odd relief that it hadn't worked out between them after all. _Oh yes, Eamon, my new wife's around here somewhere. You'll recognize her immediately, she's a little grey mouse_, _do try not to step on her._)

"Oh, look at you!" Leliana exclaims, running a finger along the mouse's fur. "You're adorable!"

The mouse squeaks in response, eyes beady and bright.

"Oh… oh, my," Cullen manages, pale and shaken. "Is that…?"

"Here." Leliana leans over, hand outstretched, and deposits the mouse in Cullen's hand, pushing his fingers into place and ignoring his recoil. "Isn't she a cunning little thing? Look at those ears."

Oghren grins. "Look at the _tail_."

Before Cullen can answer the mouse gives an alarmed squeak and leaps from his hand, racing across the little campground and there's a white shimmer at the outline as it hurtles into the nearest tent, a tumble of suddenly large limbs inside the canvas and then Therrin's voice, low and strained. "Um," she calls. "Can someone hand me my clothes?"

"Don't recall Morrigan having that particular problem," Oghren calls, smirking a bit as Leliana gathers up the empty robes. "Pretty sure I woulda remembered something like that."

"I said I wasn't very good at it," Therrin returns, embarrassed, and Teagan averts his eyes as Leliana opens up the flap of the tent and ducks inside, and immediately the pair of women start laughing.

"And the giggle brigade marches again," Alistair sighs.

"You're no longer allowed an opinion on the matter," Leliana calls in reminder. After what seems a long time the women reemerge, Therrin wrapped in a cloak and settling into the space between Alistair and Cullen, tugging at her dripping braid. "That wasn't as hard as I thought it would be."

"I was hoping you'd try for the spider," Alistair says, not looking at her. "Battle-mouse just doesn't have the same ring to it."

Therrin frowns at him, worried, but the expression disappears when Stephen and Dog meander back to camp. "Where have you been?"

"Looking at the horses," Stephen answers, wrinkling his nose at Therrin and concentrating as though he can't quite make something out. "Did you do magic?"

"Yes," Therrin says. When she glances to Cullen, he doesn't look at her. "I was a mouse."

"When's supper?" Stephen asks, unimpressed.

"Soon," Leliana assures him, smiling, and Teagan can't help but notice the peachy glow of her skin or the way her skirt clings to the line of her hips as she leans over to the fire to stir the pot, and before he can look away she's caught his gaze, cheeks flushing pinker and eyes sparkling. "Are you hungry, Teagan?"

"A… a bit," he manages, pushing back the thought that he hasn't stammered before a woman in nearly twenty years. "I can wait."

For some reason, that only makes her smile.

-oOo-

"Did you learn that from the apostate?" Cullen asks quietly as Therrin ties the tent-flap closed behind them. "The… how to be a mouse."

Therrin's hands fall still. "I learned shapeshifting from the apostate. Morrigan," she clarifies carefully. "Her name was Morrigan."

There's something in there she isn't saying, and it takes him a moment to sort it out. "But she didn't teach you how to be a mouse."

"No." Therrin sits back on her heels, folding her hands. "I learned it in the Fade."

He feels a moment's disbelief as horror floods his mind at the words—as though she's struck him, as though she's transformed before his eyes into something unholy—but only looks at him, waiting for his response. "The Fade," he repeats hollowly, at last.

Therrin nods, and doesn't speak.

"Why…?" But he doesn't really know what to ask, and certainly can't make sense of what he feels. Of all things it shouldn't be grief that's pushing its way to the forefront of his mind, intrusive and heavy and bitter.

"Because I had to," she answers. "I was trapped by a demon. My friends were being held captive. I had to learn in order to find the demon, and kill it, and get free." She shifts onto the bedroll. "I understand if this is strange for you—"

"No," Cullen interrupts faintly. "I don't think you do." Her mouth closes silently, and she doesn't say anything else. "I don't… I told you before that I don't know how to be anything but a templar," he goes on, scarcely noticing her nod. "I don't know how… Therrin, I don't know what to _do_," he confesses, a ferocious ache blooming behind his eyes as the headache and malaise that's dogged him all day grows worse. "All my training says what you've done is wrong." She frowns but doesn't argue, and he tries to make sense of his own disappointment and put it into words. "You can't hurt anyone."

"I can't promise that." At his expression she presses, "I do hurt people. I have. If I have to, I will again. There's no getting around it; we're dangerous people."

"Mages—"

"Not mages," she interrupts. "Us. You and me." When he doesn't say anything, she continues, "We're trained to fight, to kill. To survive. What do you think that makes us?"

Cullen wavers, sick at heart and overwhelmed. "I don't know," he says at last. She doesn't answer, and after a moment they retreat from each other and lie down without touching. In the cold, dark tent Cullen can't help but think that she feels very far away, and the next morning, they don't speak.

Bad enough that the weather seems to mirror the mood, grey and drizzling and oppressively quiet as fog shrouds the land. Bad enough that they seem to be emanating waves of unhappiness that cast a pall over the entire party. The passage of time becomes impossible to gauge; they could have walked for a half an hour, or five hours, and Cullen doesn't know that he could be sure of the difference. Even Stephen is quiet as he sits atop the pony, staring into space and blinking distractedly.

Until in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the road, Alistair and Therrin stop. It could almost have been comical under different circumstances—the momentum of the rest of the party trying to adjust, reining in the horses and reshuffling packs—but the grim solemnity on the Wardens' faces seems too dark, eclipsing any humor at all.

"Darkspawn," Alistair says by way of explanation, what feels like an agony of waiting later. "Not… close. But…"

"Around," Therrin finishes, both of them looking out into the trees before she frowns over at Stephen. "Here, come down." The king's guards tighten their perimeter, wary and unsettled as Therrin pulls Stephen from the pony and takes him by the hand.

Teagan glances at Cullen, but if there's meaning in the expression he's not sure what to make of it. "Darkspawn?" He lets out a breath, frowning. "We're in poor position to fight, I think. Can they be avoided?"

"No." The word's so quiet Cullen isn't sure he's heard, at first, but Therrin shakes her head for emphasis. "We can't avoid them. Not for long." She kicks at the dirt idly, not looking at anyone.

Alistair heaves a sigh, relaxing the tiniest bit. "Eyes open, everyone. Let's try to spot them before they spot us."

A collective shudder seems to run through the group, but the pall's been broken in favor of a sense of keen-eyed watching, as though they could cut through the fog through sheer force of will to expose the threats that might be hidden within. "Darkspawn," Leliana grumbles, expression sour. "I thought we were done with these things."

Therrin shakes her head and doesn't answer, casting a protective spell over Stephen automatically.

"How do you know?" Cullen asks after a moment, as everyone falls back into step. "That they're close, I mean. I didn't hear anything."

Therrin's mouth purses for a second and she glances at him sidelong. "We sense them," she says. "And they sense us. So they find us, or we find them."

Though it doesn't make much sense to him at the time the only thing Cullen can think is _as though you didn't have enough drawn to you already_ and that she looks unhappy, so he does the only thing he can think to do: he pushes his reservations aside and takes her hand, and though she doesn't say anything her fingers squeeze his and hold on tightly.

But even though they're careful, even though they're watchful, they don't find the darkspawn. Instead, they find what the darkspawn have left behind.


	26. The Barren Forest

Sometime in the late afternoon the fog lifts, and Cullen's spirits seem to lift with it. The thought of darkspawn isn't a pleasant one but finding them gives him an objective, at least, which helps.

He isn't the only one on edge, it seems. The king's guards shift in anticipation and triple-check their weapons, and at every crackling twig and rustle in the underbrush they seem to go tenser, nerves taut and ready for battle.

The Tower had been a quiet, static environment when it wasn't under attack, and in comparison the forest practically breathes unpredictability. It strains his nerves, and at a sudden flurry of crunching sounds from the roadside he reaches for his sword automatically, unsettled by Therrin's reflexive spell but ignoring it until—Holy Maker,his sword is covered in _flames_.

He must have made some noise as he dropped it to the ground, but he's hardly alone. The king's bodyguards are either dropping their flaming weapons in shock or looking at them warily, and Teagan's blade is steady in his hands but he looks a bit unsure as Therrin hurries to wave the spell away.

King Alistair is laughing.

"Sorry," Therrin mumbles, looking sheepish when the source of the noise turns out to be a rabbit. "Sorry. Force of habit. I didn't think."

"Oh, Maker, you should see your faces," Alistair says, grinning.

"Indeed." Teagan shoots him a rather arch look, sheathing his sword. "I take it this isn't out of the ordinary, then."

"Sorry," Therrin offers again as Cullen collects his sword. "I should have warned you. It's not that funny, Alistair, you did the same thing."

"I did not."

She grins and tries to sound like Alistair. "'Andraste's flaming sword, my sword is on fire!'"

"Well it _was_. And I'd known you for all of half an hour, as I recall; I was still half-convinced you were going to turn me into a toad."

"What's that?" Stephen asks before Therrin can retort, pointing up into the trees a little distance down the road. Whatever levity might have buoyed them in the face of uncertainty dies as Cullen looks to see what Stephen's pointing at and recognizes the unmistakable form of a human body hanging from a tree.

"Blessed Andraste," Leliana murmurs in soft dismay.

Therrin's already covered Stephen's eyes, not budging as he tries to squirm away. "Don't look," she orders, "and stop wiggling."

"Why? What is it?" He tugs her hand down to get a better view, forehead creasing in curiosity.

"Bad things, Stephen. Do as I say."

"But—"

"Now."

What to do with a child in the face of something like this? Cullen grasps for an answer, wondering if he might ought to throw a blanket over Stephen and carry him until they're safe, but Therrin's urged Stephen forward a little step into Leliana's ready arms. "Here, then," Leliana tells him. "Stay with me, just for a moment."

Therrin squints down the road, silent, and Cullen can sense a thin push of magic that doesn't seem to get anywhere. "Right," she says, voice hard. "Dog and…" her eyes are scanning the group and she hesitates at the sight of him, and he thinks that she's going to say _and_ _Cullen_ but she doesn't. "That's it," she finishes with a faint grimace. "With me, boy."

With nothing more than that she turns and marches down the road, staff at the ready and Dog at her side, and at the jerk of King Alistair's chin Oghren falls in line behind her. A moment later, Teagan follows, frowning and watchful and glancing uneasily out into the trees.

It's an agony of waiting as the minutes slide by. Therrin's little band disappears around the curve of the road, and Cullen can't help the foreboding feeling of discontent in the back of his mind. Mages aren't supposed to be in charge. He's got years of training shouting at him that Therrin snapping to action and making the decisions is wrong. While he'd known before that she'd led men into battle, led armies into battle, it had always seemed a faraway and improbable thing.

Watching a general and a bann follow her to scout for danger, watching the king peer down the road, holding his breath and waiting for her word makes it feels less and less improbable by the second.

She'd almost said for him to come along, he's nearly sure of it, and the thought that she didn't tugs in warring directions, vague relief and vaguer insult. None of it seems to make sense at all. Oghren had said that the chain of command was sodding twisted, but he'd never considered what it would mean to have Therrin and himself in the same line, or to have her in a position to give him orders.

At long last there's motion down the road—Oghren, giving the all-clear—and reluctantly the rest of the party starts forward to follow.

Oghren does not look happy. It's not clear at first why he should be grim. The hanging pair of corpses nearby are at least a week old, from what Cullen can tell, and while the sight of them is macabre it also means they're not a sign of enemies close at hand. But Oghren's scowl seems etched into his face, and he moves past them to stop Leliana from bringing Stephen any closer. "About time someone taught the kid to spit," he grumbles, clapping a hand on Stephen's shoulder and towing him toward the back by the horses, out of sight, ignoring Stephen's curious look.

Cullen looks back down the road where he can see Therrin crouched beside a toppled oxcart with Dog, talking to… a child? The figure looks like a half-grown girl, and he thinks at first that she's filthy—and she is, her pale hair is matted with dirt and blood—but as he steps closer he realizes that her skin is an unnatural color, mottled dark with bruises the color of rotting fruit, that her eyes are fever-bright and glazed. She trembles and jerks in place as though she can't control her limbs.

"Maker's breath," Leliana whispers, a hand coming to her mouth in dismay.

Cullen frowns, uneasy. "What, what's—?"

"A ghoul," Leliana interrupts without taking her eyes from the child.

Though the sight of her seems to have troubled the king's guards they don't reflect anywhere near the king's horror, but he collects himself and when he speaks his voice is steady. "Therrin?"

Therrin doesn't look up. "This is Belinda," she answers, and something in her voice makes uneasiness crawl on Cullen's skin from the unnatural calm of it. "Her family spent the winter in Redcliffe and were heading back to their farm outside Lothering. They were attacked. She's been here alone ever since." She shifts in her crouch, settling slightly closer to the odd girl—ghoul, Cullen corrects silently. He had heard about ghouls before but nothing could have prepared him for this. She doesn't look like a monster. She looks like a discolored girl, like a child shaking with disease.

She still looks human. He wouldn't have expected that.

"Here, then," Therrin goes on, as though she's talking to a frightened animal. "How many of you were there?"

The girl's purplish tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and she frowns as though it hurts to think, looking uneasily at Dog. "S-seven? My parents, and my older… older brothers, and my grandfather. We hadn't much farther to go, Bren said."

"Bren," Teagan muses softly. "I know that name. The Frell family?"

Belinda nods, eyes clearing the littlest bit. "Yes, we were… oh, _Maker_, you're Bann Teagan." With violently shaking hands she tries to rake her tangled hair from her eyes, apparently self-conscious. Cullen has the feeling that if she could, she'd be blushing.

But Teagan takes it in stride, forehead creased in concern. "Yes, I am. I didn't know your family was leaving Redcliffe."

"Father was worried," she says in a small voice, still pushing at her hair and shooting a vaguely grateful look at Therrin when she reaches out to help, gently smoothing a snarled lock out of the girl's eyes. "The farm… he didn't think… he…" She swallows with a visible wince. "He was afraid people would steal our things while we were away. And then, the… the monsters came and…" Her mouths twists as though she's on the verge of tears but her eyes are still dry and fevered.

"You managed to hide? But you were hurt, weren't you?" Therrin asks, undisturbed by Belinda's tremors. She turns to the king and mouths _water_, and as soon as he hands her the waterskin she opens it and holds it out in offering, helping keep it steady against the girl's mouth when her hands prove too shaky to hold it. Most of it dribbles out over her lips but the she drinks in relief anyway, dabbing embarrassedly at her damp chin.

"Father was fighting," she explains after a moment. "And everyone was s-shouting and there were swords everywhere… he hit me. Not on purpose," she manages quickly, shifting and grimacing at the pain of moving. "But… there. It burns. Everywhere."

Not a deep wound, Cullen can see, just an ugly gash on the back of her arm, black and virulently red and entirely unnatural-looking for a sword wound. Trails of dark blood under her skin radiate out from the cut in heavy lines.

"Father shouted at me to… to go," she continues. "I hid in the cart, under blankets. And I don't think they saw me but I heard…" she swallows. "Everything."

"Oh, you poor dear," Leliana murmurs, heartsick.

"Your father was fighting darkspawn," Therrin repeats quietly. "And hit you with his blade?"

Belinda seems to shrink. "Not on purpose."

"No, of course not." Cullen doesn't quite know what it means to Therrin, but it must mean something. King Alistair's gone grim, a muscle twitching in his jaw and his arms crossed, and Therrin's expression is completely closed off. "Here, then," she says, pushing to her feet and motioning for Teagan to follow. "I need a word with my friends, if you'll be alright for a moment."

Belinda gives a jerky nod, fevered and near sick with hope as she watches them go, clasping her hands together in an attempt to stop them from shaking.

The wind picks up in a cold, slicing breeze, rattling the bare limbs of the trees together. Therrin kicks at the dirt as she and Teagan come closer, as the king and Leliana fall into step behind her and Cullen follows. The space between them makes a rough, small circle when they stop, an odd sort of conference, and though Therrin's standing at his shoulder her arms are crossed and she doesn't look up, frowning at the dirt as though it's the cause of all the trouble in the world.

Dog flops onto the ground at Therrin's feet with a low whine, ears drooping.

It's Teagan who breaks the uneasy silence, glancing back in Belinda's direction and sounding grave. "Is there anything that can be done?"

King Alistair doesn't look up, shifting in place uneasily. "No. It's just a matter of time."

"You can heal her, though," Cullen argues, and when Therrin doesn't look up trepidation creeps into his mind in a dark flood. "You've studied—"

"No. I can't," she says, voice flat. "If it was possible to heal her I'd have done it already."

Leliana shivers and pulls her cloak tighter, glancing back over her shoulder. "She is suffering," she points out softly. "How long does she have?"

"Hours," the king interrupts, so low Cullen can hardly hear him. "A day or two, maybe."

"Unless they find her," Therrin adds grimly. "Or unless she finds them."

Horror breaks over Alistair's expression, his breath catching as he stares at Therrin. "You don't think… she's a _child_."

Therrin's fingers curl tightly into the sleeves of her robe, and for a moment she doesn't answer. "She might not be. Bodily, at least. I don't know."  She glances from person to person, and when her eyes find Cullen they're grave. "But it's beside the point."

In a wash of revulsion it dawns on Cullen slowly, a rising tide of disquiet at the realization that they're standing around trying not to discuss killing an innocent girl. "There's nothing we can do?"

"There's one thing," Therrin says, voice tight. "But no, there's no way to save her."

Silence hangs between them, then, oppressively heavy and thick as no one looks directly at anyone else. Cullen considers it, sick at heart. He would cut down an abomination in a heartbeat, would consider it a duty, but… this. This is different, monstrous and squirming under his ribcage.  It seems a very long time before Therrin speaks again. "We're losing daylight." Her voice is steady but her knuckles are white from gripping her robe when she sets her jaw and gives Alistair a serious look. "Go on ahead; find a place to set up for the night. I'll catch up."

The king looks sick. "Therrin…"

"I won't be far behind." She kicks at the dirt again, her expression brittle.

King Alistair looks for a moment as though he's going to protest, to push the issue, but Leliana shakes her head at him. "Be careful, Amell."

Therrin nods, not looking up. "Tell Stephen I'll give him five coppers if he can find me a perfectly white rock I need for a spell." Leliana nods assent and says no more, heading back for the horses. "Go on, boy," Therrin says as Dog cocks his head and whines. "She's scared enough as it is."

Dog barks once, argumentative.

"But you're not like the dogs she's used to," Therrin points out. "You won't be far. You'll hear if I need you."

Dog whines, licks at her fingers a moment, and heads after Leliana, glancing back over his shoulder every couple of steps.

"What spell?" Cullen asks, shifting in place as Teagan and the king head back for the group.

She attempts a smile that doesn't quite make it. "There isn't one. I don't need any rocks. It's just a game, sort of, to keep his eyes on the road. So that if there's any more bodies," she gestures up at the dangling corpses. "Someone else will spot them first. Hopefully." She rubs at her forehead with a hand. "I really don't know what else to do with him. I can't keep him blindfolded all the time." She glances at the assembled group, ready and waiting. "You'd better go."

Cullen hesitates. "Therrin…"

"Later." She looks tired, immensely tired. "We'll talk later, at camp. Please go."

It's a very quiet group that trudges down the road, then, somber and grave except for Stephen, who's appalled at the idea of Therrin being left behind, even for a little while. It's only grudgingly that he starts watching the road for white stones, slouching along with a scowl and glancing over his shoulder as though hoping Therrin will arrive at any moment.

She doesn't.

After half an hour or so of travel with afternoon slipping away into evening, they finally call it a day. It's almost a relief to go about the mundane chores of setting up camp, unpacking the necessities, clearing the ground, setting up tents. It keeps him from watching down the road as the minutes slip by.

It's odd, for a moment, when a few of the king's guards stand around awkwardly by the little pile of logs and tinder. But of course Therrin is the one who always lights the campfires, he realizes, and though such a little thing shouldn't be a sticking point it just deepens his sense of unease. It's not lessened at all when someone produces flint and steel, sparks flying into the tinder until it catches.

Dusk is beginning to deepen by the time the fire's going strong. Leliana disappears into her tent with Stephen and a handful of cookies pilfered from a pack as the men settle around the campfire, and there's little attempt at conversation until Oghren makes his way over and settles heavily between Teagan and Cullen, somehow managing to knock into them both. "Here," he grunts, uncorking a bottle. "Don't you girls get all sodding weepy on me, now." He holds out the bottle to Cullen. "Drink up."

The bottle is dark green and the contents are impossible to determine. There's a sharp smell coming from the opening and Cullen holds up a hand to decline. "I don't think—"

"Yeah. You do," Oghren interrupts. "You think too much; it's your whole sodding problem. So drink up and shut up."

Cullen almost protests again but Dog flops down in front of him with a gusty sigh and gives him a look. Well?

"You can consider it an order, if it offends your delicate sensibilities," Oghren grins at him, a little sharp. "Can't ever trust a man that's always sober."

"Just…" Cullen hesitates. "From the bottle?"

Oghren snickers and Bann Teagan ducks his head trying not to chuckle, and Cullen gets the feeling even Dog is having a laugh at his expense. He takes the bottle, this time, and drinks. It's… terrible, actually, and appallingly strong. But he tries not to grimace as he swallows and passes the bottle back, and Oghren passes it over to Teagan, who drinks without comment.

"You know," Teagan says at last, passing the bottle to Alistair and glancing back at Cullen. "I wish you'd said something about Therrin when I arrived at the Tower. It was rather awkward to find out the two of you were already involved. I wouldn't have proposed, had I known."

"She wouldn't have married you anyway," Alistair cuts in, making a face at the taste of the liquor.

Teagan seems amused. "No?"

"Not a chance." Alistair takes another long pull from the bottle.

"Because as I recall…"

Alistair shakes his head. "She'd have been practically my aunt. That's just… wrong." He frowns at Teagan, a little wary as he passes the bottle back to Cullen.

"She would have," Cullen offers with a shrug at Teagan. "Married you. For what it's worth."

On second thought, maybe the liquor isn't so bad. It tastes a little like grass, true, but grass doesn't taste all that awful, and anyway there's a little warm spot starting to… to _glow_, right in the middle of his chest, and it's quite pleasant. Pleasant enough for another few swallows, at the very least.

"Besides," Cullen complains mildly, passing the bottle, "what was I supposed to say? I was a templar, you know. It's not as though I could've done anything about it." But Oghren is snickering and takes a hearty swig, and it occurs to Cullen that yes, yes he did. "Well," he amends. "It wasn't sanctioned. And I thought… I wasn't happy about it, but I thought she might be happy. Happier." He waves a hand vaguely. "Out here. With you."

Oh there, that faded urge to punch Teagan in the face… it rears its head, a ghost of an impulse, faint but hopeful.

But Teagan looks surprised. "That's quite noble of you."

The impulse dies with a grumble, a magnanimous feeling of goodwill bubbling up in its place, because it was good of Teagan, wasn't it? To try to get Therrin out of the Tower and make her happy. "You're a good man, Teagan," Cullen says on impulse.

Teagan merely looks amused, gesturing at the bottle (which Cullen doesn't remember taking back, but which is in his hands again, somehow). "You might want to take it easy with that."

"I said drink, not turn into a giggling idiot," Oghren grumbles, pulling the bottle away. "Thought you could use some calming-down. Didn't think you'd take to it quite so fast."

"Therrin will kill you if she shows up and you're drunk," Alistair nods sagely, and then swipes the bottle from Oghren. "But not me." His face falls. "_Cecily's_ going to kill me."

Teagan looks as though he's trying very hard not to laugh. "I'm sure she'll come around. She may not have been happy when you told her you'd be leaving Denerim—"

"I didn't tell her," Alistair confesses, rather forlornly. "I just… left."

Teagan's amusement drains. "You didn't tell your wife that you were going halfway across Ferelden." Alistair shakes his head, a bit sheepish, and for a moment Cullen feels sorry for him. "To see Therrin," Teagan finishes slowly, as though he can't quite believe it.

Alistair's shoulders slump. "No."

"Oh, Alistair, she is going to kill you," Teagan sighs, almost pityingly.

"I know." The king takes four long pulls from the bottle, making a face and shuddering as he hands it back. "I was in a hurry."

"And yet hurrying gets young men in trouble, Alistair," Leliana says, emerging from her tent and coming over. "You should know this, yes?" Alistair flushes dull red, and when she takes in the sight of them, Leliana frowns. "Maker's breath, what is all this?"

"Blowing off a little steam," Oghren rumbles, leaning back. "You in?"

"Gracious, no. Is Amell not back yet?"

"No." Oghren scratches the back of his neck. "Wringing your hands isn't going to bring her back any faster, either."

"I just worry."

"She killed an archdemon," Alistair reminds her, faintly belligerent. "Killing a little girl's got to be a piece of cake in comparison."

Cullen can nearly feel his jaw drop, and then realizes that it has dropped and his mouth is hanging open. Fortunately, he's not the only one horrified. Alistair looks like a bee might have crawled in his mouth and stung him.

"I can't," Leliana begins, sounding strangled and looking murderous. "Don't you dare say that in front of her!"

"Say what in front of who?" With no more warning than that, Therrin is back, looking drawn even in the firelight, and Leliana takes her by the hand and leads her on, still fuming. "Nothing. Foolishness, that's all." With a severe frown, she nudges Cullen out of the way and settles Therrin between herself and Oghren, and Cullen can't help but feel a bit indignant.

Dog crawls over on his belly and rests his massive head in her lap, whining until she pets his ears. Leliana puts an arm around her protectively. "Are you alright?" she ventures. "You were gone a long time."

"I had to burn her," Therrin says, rubbing her face with both hands and finally offering a weak smile. "Can we run off to Orlais yet?" she asks, a little plaintive. "Live in sin and wear pretty clothes and never have to do this again?"

Leliana smiles, but her eyes are sad. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Here." Oghren produces an amber-colored bottle and hands it over. "Try some of this."

Therrin takes the bottle, bemused and turning it over in her hands. "Last time you said 'here kid, try some of this' I ended up dancing with you on a table in a tavern."

Cullen gets a mental image of it, all unbidden, but laughing seems the wrong thing to do just then.

"No you didn't," Oghren scoffs. "Nobody with eyes would've called that dancing." He nudges her with a shoulder and she sways. "Give it a try."

She pulls the cork looking thoughtful and a little far away, and takes a small swallow, considering. "Apples?" she asks at last with a fragile smile. "It's good. Thank you."

She makes to hand the bottle back but he waves it away. "Keep it. You brought me enough liquor the trip before, remember." It occurs to Cullen that Oghren looks worried and it makes him worried again, the afternoon coming back in an unpleasant rush.

"I remember." Therrin goes quiet after that, tracing patterns in the dirt with the tips of her fingers. "I think I'm going to call it a night," she says at last, and climbs to her feet. "Goodnight."

The quiet mood lingers after she goes, only broken when Alistair frowns. "How come she gets the stuff that tastes like apples and we get the stuff that tastes like grass?"

Oghren smirks. "Because you drink fast enough the difference doesn't matter." Cullen pushes to his feet to follow Therrin because now the thought of earlier is bugging him, scratching like sand in his clothes. Oghren leans over and catches hold of his arm. "Don't be stupid," he warns.

Cullen frowns, vaguely insulted. "I won't."

Oghren only grumbles.

Back in the tent Therrin is still fully dressed, lying on her side in the dark. She hardly glances up when he comes in somewhat less gracefully than normal, grabbing to the top of the canvas for balance and nearly bringing the entire thing down on top of them. "I wanted to talk to you," he says, irritated and tugging at the fastenings of his armor. "You left me behind, and there was no reason to."

At that, she raises her head. "What are you talking about?"

"Earlier, when you went to scout," he answers, a little indignant and setting aside his armor a piece at a time. "You said 'Dog and' and you were going to say 'and Cullen' but you didn't." She doesn't answer, and so Cullen barrels on, "I don't know why you wouldn't take me. I'm a good swordsman, you know, I had years of training to get there. I don't know why you wouldn't ask me to go along and try to protect you."

Therrin only watches him, and for lack of anything else to do he strips off the last of his armor and clothes. "I worried about you out there."

She rests her head back on the bedroll. "I'm fine."

"I don't think that's true," he argues.

Absurdly, she laughs, though the sounds more tired than anything, and not really happy at all. "You should argue naked more often. It suits you."

"Should what?" And sure enough when he glances down he is naked, and he quickly scrambles under the blanket beside her, reaching out blindly and settling his arms around her in what's fast becoming familiarity. "It doesn't change things; I meant it. I haven't done anything since we left the Tower," he complains against her head. "I'm not used to being useless."

Therrin rolls to face him and props herself up on an elbow. "I didn't want to take you with me because I couldn't be sure I could do what I had to around you. Or that you would be on my side if I did."

"I am on your side," he protests.

"No." Therrin's voice gives no quarter and he thinks again that he can see a little bit of what it must have been like when she led armies. "I don't mean fighting the same enemy. I mean I need to know that I can cast the spells I need to cast without you standing in judgment the whole time."

"I'm not," Cullen argues, affronted.

"I think you are," she says. "I can't get distracted by you wondering where I learned some spell, or what's going to happen if you decide you can't live with it. I can't hold back for your sake," she clarifies, shifting. "Fighting is hard enough as it is without feeling like I'm being second-guessed. If it comes to it, I've got to use every skill I have, and I don't think you really know what that means."

"I do," Cullen answers, nodding, and just at the moment he believes it. "Of course I do. I saw you fight Alain."

She makes a dismissive noise. "That was nothing. Play fighting." She makes an unhappy sound, voice going a little grim. "But if the darkspawn find us, you'll see."

"It's going to be all right," Cullen offers, at a loss as to how to fix this but doggedly determined to try.

Therrin only sighs. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

"No," he protests, shifting closer as she settles back onto the bedroll. "Sort of. A little."

"I swear," Therrin mumbles against his shoulder, vaguely despairing. "I leave you alone for ten minutes…"

"You were gone a long time," he says.  

Therrin hesitates. "I guess I was." She shivers and pulls the blanket up, tense as a bowstring right up until she sleeps. Sometime in the night the wind picks up and keens through the barren trees above like the wail of a lost child.


	27. The Stolen Hours

It truly is a glorious morning, Leliana thinks, cupping a mug of tea in her hands and watching tendrils of steam curl lazily into the air. For the first time this year it really feels like spring, the sunrise golden and soft and the sound of nearby birdsong cheerful and bright.

Pity she's the only one awake for it.

From the other tents come sounds of snoring and shuffling, and Leliana tries to ignore it in favor of picking out the traces of green in the trees above, new leaves emerging and the beginnings of flowers. There was nothing like this up close to the Urn—the terrain more rugged, the trees hardy and scrubby with no flowers at all—and though the expedition had fed something in her soul, this is somehow just as holy: the world new and awakening, opening itself to the sun and a thousand promises of hope.

Nearby, Oghren belches in his tent.

Leliana sighs.

There's a rustle from the underbrush and Teagan appears, bemused and apparently coming back from a walk, brushing a twig from his hair, and smiling when he sees her in a way that absolutely does not make her heart leap a little because she is a grown woman and not some fool of a child to lose her head over some nobleman's smile. But it doesn't help matters when he walks over and sits down nearby, taking up the long branch she'd used to stir the embers of last night's fire and poking at the ashes idly. "Good morning."

"Good morning." It's difficult not to smile, then, so she hides it behind her mug, sipping and not looking at him directly. There's a hundred well-practiced pleasantries she could use—small talk, little nudges to ease the fall into a light, meaningless conversation—but they seem slippery in her mouth, unsuitable. Before she can compose a decent line of conversation there's a lurching noise and a moan, and Alistair staggers out of his tent, bare-legged and missing a sock.

Before Leliana has time to laugh, the king in all his smallclothed glory sways unevenly in the direction of Therrin's tent as though his legs don't want to work in tandem. He falls to his knees, squinting and tugging at the tent-flap. "Therrin. _Therrin_. Wake up."

"Alistair," Leliana begins. But he's somehow managed the ties and stumbles into the tent, and Leliana can't see what's in there but there's a moment of silence before she hears Therrin's laughter, rough with sleep. Alistair scrambles backward out of the tent looking green and red both at the same time and falling onto his backside in the grass. "I did not need to see that," he announces, looking very ill.

Teagan looks as amused as Leliana feels, and calls over, "Alistair, are you all right?"

Alistair shakes his head and looks like he wishes he hadn't, and climbs to his feet carefully to walk over and sit down next to Leliana. As inconspicuously as she can, she edges away. No sense in being vomited on, if it comes to it.

"He's naked." Alistair's expression doesn't change but he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes as though he could scrub away the mental image.

"Alistair." This time Teagan sounds less amused and more exasperated, and Alistair opens one bloodshot eye. Teagan points to Alistair's conspicuously bare legs. "You're missing something, lad."

"Huh? Oh. _Dog_. Dog stole my pants," Alistair grumbles, and Leliana's about to say _don't be absurd_ when Dog trots in from the other side of camp with Alistair's pants in his mouth, tail wagging and holding his prize just out of Alistair's reach.

"Dog," Leliana scolds. Dog's tail wags even harder. "Give them back."

Dog shakes them in his teeth like prey, slobber flying in wet spatters in all directions.

"You're being very naughty. Therrin wouldn't like it."

Dog drops the drool-soaked and very rumpled trousers in the grass. With a grumble Alistair snatches them up and—apparently not concerned with their being covered in saliva—pulls them on, on the spot, settling back into place and resting his head in his hands.

At the small noise Teagan makes Leliana turns, momentarily concerned, but Teagan is only staring at Alistair, shaking his head the slightest bit and looking appalled. When she catches his eye he gives a small, incredulous laugh, leaning back and regarding his king. "I don't even know where to start," he confesses.

"Therrin," Alistair grumbles loudly, holding his temples as though to keep his head from exploding.

"Alistair," Teagan begins, but Alistair shakes his head.

"_Shh_," says the king. "I think we should all be very quiet. And not move around very much. I'm going to be sick."

Leliana scoots even further away.

"You big baby," Therrin sighs, emerging from the tent bleary-eyed and amused. "You're not going to die from a hangover." Alistair only grumbles. "And you can't be falling into my tent in your smallclothes," she scolds, sitting down in front of him. "Your poor guards must've been horrified."

"Please just shut up and fix my head," Alistair groans.

She only looks amused. "How much did you drink? _What_ did you drink? Do you even know?"

He scowls, squinting and looking insulted. "Don't interrogate me, you harpy."

Therrin raises an eyebrow, and her voice. "_Harpy?_"

Alistair winces.

"You're the one that got drunk," Therrin says, "I should let you suffer the natural consequences."

"No, no," Alistair says quickly. "No consequences. Please. I already had to… no consequences," he pleads.

Therrin considers him, not particularly sympathetic. "Fine." A shimmer of magic begins building in her fingers, cool and bright and tugging at something just at the edge of hearing, and as soon as she completes the spell and it washes over Alistair he wobbles over and vomits into her lap.

"Oh," he manages, coughing. "Sorry. Sorry. Thank you."

"Alistair," Leliana murmurs, aghast.

Therrin hasn't moved. She considers the pool of sick on her robe and then turns that consideration on Alistair, like one might consider an insect about to be squashed.

"Thank you, again," Alistair says quickly. "Sorry. I'm sorry for throwing up on you. Have I told you how pretty you look today?"

Therrin swallows, eyes closed and face a blank mask. "Just… don't." After a moment her eyes open and she grimaces in disgust at the mess on her clothes. "I should clean up before we get back on the road."

"I'm not going anywhere today," Alistair argues, apparently quite relieved to be rid of his hangover. "Sick or not, we can use the rest." When he notices Therrin glaring at him again he looks startled. "What?"

Therrin's mouth is tight. "We're never going to make it to Amaranthine at this rate."

"Oh, like you were so excited about it in the first place. Just as well," Alistair offers. "Probably a whole city of straight hallways and right angles."

She shoots him a disgusted look.

"I'm… sorry?" Teagan looks confused. "Straight hallways and right angles?"

Alistair grins. "True story. When Therrin first became a Warden she couldn't walk a straight line. She'd get distracted in a hallway and start walking a curve, run right into the wall."

Therrin is glaring again. "I lived in a _Circle _for twenty years."

"I wasn't making fun of you. Don't hurt me."

Therrin's hands are twitching as though she doesn't know whether to strangle him or cast a spell, and in the end she does neither. She pushes to her feet and stomps off in the direction of the creek, muttering all the way.

"Oh, Maker," Alistair groans once she's out of sight, dropping his head to his hands. "That was… bad."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Leliana offers, too innocently. "Amell is very forgiving, yes?"

If anything, Alistair looks even more miserable as he clambers to his feet. "I'm going back to bed. Wake me when there's… ooh, _food_, I wonder if I have any of that blue cheese left…"

It seems very quiet with them gone, with Dog dozing in a patch of sun and Teagan peering up at the sky, and Leliana sips at her tea only to find it's gone disappointingly cold.

"Would you care to go hunting with me today?" Teagan asks, a warm, easy smile on his face. "If we don't have to travel, it's a lovely day for it."

A half-dozen responses spring to Leliana's lips immediately, all of them too eager, so it's a moment before she can collect her thoughts enough to nod and simply say, "Yes. I'd like that."

His smile widens, and it's hard to suppress an answering grin, joy fluttering soft at her mind and glowing warm in her heart.

-oOo-

It's amazing how much being vomited on first thing in the morning can sour one's mood, Therrin thinks, shivering in her sodden robe as she hurries back to camp.

Of course pranks are common among apprentices at the Tower, an endless succession of one-ups and revenge, but Therrin had only rarely been part of them and so nothing comes to mind at first when she pictures getting Alistair back. It's a shame, really. Oghren. She'll ask Oghren, and if that doesn't work, Leliana. Then again, Oghren works for Alistair.

Maybe Leliana first.

With that vaguely prickly thought turning over and over in her brain she ducks back inside her tent, quiet and a little unsettled at the sight of Cullen still asleep, face-down and unmoving. She'd never have pegged him for a late sleeper, even with a hangover. Only he isn't sleeping, she realizes when he raises his head a fraction of an inch and turns it, gingerly, blinking up at her with one bleary eye. "Therrin?"

"Hey there." She fastens the tent-flap closed. "How do you feel?"

Cullen makes an indistinct moaning sound, mostly muffled by the bedroll, and Therrin's answering chuckle gets cut short by her cold, clammy robe sticking again and making her shiver. It only takes a moment to yank at the little sash until it comes free, and then she tugs the whole thing off over her head, grimacing at the discomfort of being cold and clammy and now naked.

"Oh, Maker," Cullen chokes, flushing scarlet and covering his eyes, turning away. "What are you _doing?_"

"Getting warm," she answers, sliding into the bedroll beside him and trying to curl close when he stiffens. "I'm not that cold." His body is nicely warm, and she wraps her arm around his chest and tucks her legs behind his, trying to take advantage of every bit of heat coming from his skin. But his tension is more than distaste for the cold, she realizes slowly. There's a new rigidity in the posture of his shoulders, a sense of distance that had never been there before, and she frowns, letting go and leaning back. "Are you all right?"

Cullen makes a muted, strangled sound, inching away. "Y-you're…"

"I'm what?" Therrin asks warily, watching as his blush creeps downward, a dull red trailing down his neck.

"_N-naked_," Cullen answers, sounding appalled and keeping his eyes tightly shut.

"So are you," she reminds him slowly.

"Oh, Maker," he groans, shrinking further away. "Y-you shouldn't be here."

Dread pools cold in Therrin's belly, a creeping suspicion crawling like a spider through the back of her mind. "Cullen, do you remember where we are?"

"We're not supposed to be here," he says thickly, shuddering. "You're not supposed to… to… you aren't real," he manages, despairing.

Fragments of Wynne's notes filter through the fog of her brain, many-pointed and snagging at her thoughts. _Difficulties with memory, detachment from reality… _

"I need you to think," Therrin says gently, rolling away and pulling a clean robe from her pack, wrapping it around herself with nerveless fingers and batting away the sick feeling of familiarity. She's done this already, only not him, not here.

_Wynne, this isn't real, this is the Fade, Alistair, think carefully, we're stuck in a nightmare and no, I don't want to stay for dinner, Leliana… _

The blank look on Leliana's face as she'd backed away, _no, Revered Mother, I don't know this woman._

Therrin forces the thought away, forces her voice into something like steadiness. "Think very carefully. Do you remember leaving the Tower?"

Cullen hesitates. "The Tower?"

"We left," Therrin says, watching him carefully. "The Chantry came, remember? Brother Oswin wanted to take us to Aeonar." His face is blank. "Bann Teagan, Leliana? Alistair—do you remember the king showing up?"

Cullen frowns, turning over. "You can't marry Teagan."

She almost laughs at the indignant look on his face, relief sliding back in at the dawning clarity in his eyes. "I don't intend to."

He props himself on an elbow, grimacing and holding his head. "Why am I… was I injured? Trampled by something? I think something's… wrong."

"You probably have a hangover."

"That's impossible," he scoffs, wincing. "I don't drink."

"You did last night."

"I… I did, didn't I?" He peers over at her, blinking as though his eyes are dry. "I don't know why I didn't remember."

Therrin drags her thumbnail across the hem of her robes, not trusting to look up at him as the sick feeling of trepidation persists. "I think… you're starting to feel the effects of the smaller lyrium doses, aren't you? And you slept late, this morning, so you're…"

Cullen swallows, grimacing. "I missed taking it."

"There's a spell, for the hangover. A basic restorative," she offers, unsure as to whether or not to even ask because she's never used magic on him directly and it seems an odd time to start. "If you want, I could help."

He rubs at his head, a line between his brows and his eyes closed in pain. "Yes. Please." After that it's only a moment to call the spell to hand, to reach out and feel it pour over him, trickling down into him like water as he seems to sag in relief. "Thank you. That's much better."

"You're welcome." Fidgeting with the edge of her robe isn't productive but it keeps her hands busy and keeps her from feeling completely useless, uneasy and out of place. "You might still feel a bit shaky." He nods. "There's a tonic I can make, to help."

She withdraws to the far corner of the little tent in what feels suspiciously like a retreat, the unsettled feeling in her gut not abating at all. After that it's several minutes of silence as she concentrates, unloading the pack and pouring ingredients together into the little flat-bottomed bowl. As Cullen dozes the mixture coalesces slowly, clinging to the tip of the heavy spoon as the elfroot thickens, and she notes distractedly that she needs more.

Traveling with Alistair, she probably needs much more.

But the tonic is simple enough to make and doesn't take long, and as it steeps that last minute she busies herself with tucking the ingredients back into the pack. "Cullen?"

He makes an indistinct noise and turns his head, blinking slowly. For a moment she half-expects him to have lost touch with the present again, but he only huffs a rueful laugh and looks nauseated. "Remind me never to drink with Oghren again."

"Probably a good idea," she agrees, taking the bowl back into her hands. "This should help, though."

Cullen props up on his elbows, looking wan but reaching for the bowl, and doesn't even grimace at the medicinal taste of the tonic. He hands the bowl back once it's gone, settling back onto his stomach and closing his eyes. "Thanks. How long does it take to work?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take," she answers, shifting from her knees to sit more comfortably. "And it might make you a little sleepy at first. But we're not traveling today; you can rest all you like."

"Good," he mumbles, lying back down on the bedroll. Within the minute it takes to finish tidying up her pack his breathing evens out, steady and slow. She pulls her boots on and presses a kiss to the side of his head as she crawls for the tent-flap. At that he rouses, just a little. "Where are you…?"

"Digging elfroot," she answers, tugging a pack along and checking the little knife. "I won't be far."

"Elfroot," he echoes, faintly, and then he's out cold again and so he doesn't notice when she ties the tent-flap closed behind her.

Leliana and Teagan are still talking, Therrin notes, sitting companionably by the fire and smiling as she emerges. "Stephen's not still asleep, is he?"

"No." Leliana dimples. "Alistair took him fishing. I think he's trying to stay as far out of your way as possible today. Our little king is prudent sometimes, yes?" At Teagan's glance she clears her throat, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. "Of course I mean that His Majesty is very wise, and may the Maker bless him in all his endeavors." But her eyes are too bright and full of mischief for the correction to come off entirely decorous.

"Of course," Therrin echoes dubiously. "If anyone needs me, I'll be collecting ingredients."

"Take care, Amell," Leliana calls cheerily after her.

Therrin waves as she slips off into the trees, twigs crackling beneath her feet, the muted shadows of the branches above reaching out as though to take her in.

-oOo-

It's been so long since Teagan had the chance to go hunting. The reconstruction of Redcliffe doesn't leave him time for it, and before that there was Loghain and the Blight and Eamon being poisoned and death, everywhere death, and no chance for frivolities like an afternoon's recreation.

While he's had plenty of time alone in the last few months, with the weight of the arling on his shoulders and no end in sight, the quiet solitude of the woods is different, welcome and calming instead of iron-hard and cold. On the outermost fringes of the camp he waits for Leliana in peace, looking up at the sky and enjoying the moment.

Then the silence breaks and it's difficult not to be annoyed at the soft crunching heading his direction—footsteps, he's sure of it, and not Leliana's—but Therrin peeks out from behind a tree, a dead leaf in her hair, blinking at him owlishly. "Good, you're alone." Before he has time to register any proper confusion at her statement she makes an odd little hop over the fallen tree between them, holding out a small bouquet of little white flowers. "Would you see to it that Leliana gets these?"

"Of course," he responds automatically, baffled at the faintly surreal idea of becoming a mage's errand-boy. "Does she need them for something?"

Therrin nods, glancing back over her shoulder. "Yes. Regularly."

When nothing more is forthcoming and she doesn't leave—only watches him expectantly, hands clasped in front of her, waiting—he decides it prudent to go. "Right. I'll get these to her, then."

Therrin smiles. "Thank you." Without another word or anything approximating an explanation she turns and goes, disappearing into the trees and out of sight.

Odd. As he turns back and meanders in the direction of the camp, he feels another pang of relief that the engagement hadn't lasted. If it had, he'd be worried about his betrothed turning into a mouse in the middle of the woods.

And if it had lasted, he wouldn't be here, and Leliana wouldn't be walking toward him, slipping quietly through the trees and smiling like something out of a dream. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"No, not at all. It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

She glances up at the sky. "It is. Have you seen signs of game?"

"A few. Ah… here." He holds out the little cluster of flowers, and he's about to say _Therrin said to give you these_ when she gives a small sound of happiness and her eyes light up.

"Oh!" She takes the flowers into her hands, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks as she brushes one of the white petals with a thumb. "Andraste's Grace! They're _lovely_. I didn't even know they bloomed so early!"

_Neither did I_, Teagan thinks, mystified.

"My mother… these were her favorite," Leliana continues. "She always smelled of Andraste's Grace. Thank you, so very much."

"You're quite welcome." Perhaps it's ungallant but he swallows any confession about Therrin giving him the flowers in the first place, returning her smile instead. "Shall we?"

"Let me… Just a moment." With another radiant smile she heads quickly back for camp, and returns a minute later without the flowers, falling into step beside him as he heads into the trees. The sunlight filtering down from above is warm, soft, the ground too bare still to hide the tracks of deer and rabbits, foxes and boar, and the trees thicken the longer they walk. "I think the last time I went hunting," Teagan begins, thinking. "It was with Cailan, actually," he finishes, vaguely surprised. "I didn't realize it had been that long."

Cailan would have loved this, he thinks with a pang of loss. Even though Alistair is sharper than Cailan had been, sterner somehow, as though the Blight knocked off some of the soft edges and left a different man behind, the similarities are bright and close enough to make him pause. Not for the first time, he wishes things had been different. The thought of Cailan and Alistair charging through the brush together—or getting drunk together, Maker help them all—makes his heart ache for what could have been.

Leliana glances over, quiet and perceptive. "You miss him, don't you? King Cailan."

"Yes," he admits, watching the ground. "I do, sometimes. He was…"

"Special?"

Teagan nods. "Yes. Did you ever meet him?"

"No. But Amell has spoken of him, a little. And I listened, in Denerim. People love to speak of him." Leliana ducks smoothly beneath a low-hanging branch. "From the stories, one can weave a pattern and get a sense of things, even if one has never seen the person. He was easy to like, yes?"

A half-dozen memories shift in the back of Teagan's mind, of shining eyes and laughter. "Yes, he was." He can't quite keep the edge of sadness from his thoughts but Leliana seems to pick up on it, immediately, and offers a small little smile of commiseration, walking beside him in wordless companionship. So many people would feel the need to fill the quiet with chatter, but the silence between them is an agreeable, effortless thing that eases him into relaxing and the rather bizarre realization that he's enjoying himself.

Which, granted, was the point of the excursion. Still, he hadn't expected the outing to be quite so pleasant. The deep peace of the woods and the good company ease away months of anxious tension, relax ages of worry. In their absence he feels lighter, freer, in a way he'd nearly forgotten.

It's some time later when they break for a meal, a quick and simple affair of jerky and traveler's bread and a few swallows of weak ale but it's so satisfying to get to be out that he doesn't mind. In any case, Leliana's so easy to talk to that nearly an hour slips by before he realizes it at all, passing tales back and forth and laughing by the little stream as Leliana tosses tiny pieces of bread for the minnows to nibble at.

It's odd, a little, to compare the Leliana in his memory—the Chantry sister and writer of letters, serious and thoughtful and ever-concerned for him—and this Leliana, pink-cheeked in the brisk spring air and holding her bow with such graceful ease it seems a part of her.

He must have seen her fight, he realizes belatedly, though he can't rightly remember when. When he says as much she laughs, tucking hair behind her ear. "Lightning storms are very bright, yes? They draw the eye in ways arrows cannot. You would not be the first to notice Amell and not see me at all." For some reason he can't find a response to that and her smile widens. "But I _am_ quite good with a bow," she continues thoughtfully. "Better than Zevran, certainly." She grins and dimples appear in her cheeks. "Perhaps better than _you_."

He accepts the challenge immediately and they take turns firing off at targets the other selects: a knot in the gnarled tree over there, that cluster of overwintered walnuts still clinging to a branch, the nook on the bottom of a broken bough.

She _is_ good, very much so, and he finds himself wondering where she learned to shoot. He's fairly sure the Chantry doesn't teach its lay sisters archery, and almost certainly not like this.

He complains good-naturedly that he's at a disadvantage—her longbow is a masterwork, exquisitely made and clearly lovingly tended—and to his mild surprise she passes it over cheerfully. The draw weight's different than what he's used to and it takes a moment's adjustment to compensate but he tries to get a feel for it, aiming at a nearby birch, white-barked and bare.

The wind picks up and blows dead leaves around them, into his face and across the back of his neck. Teagan shakes his head to get them out from his collar, and he huffs in annoyance when his braid falls forward practically into his eyes.

"Here," Leliana murmurs, amused, and he's briefly surprised by the light brush of her hand as she reaches out, carefully pushing the braid back into place and fingertips lingering a moment on the curve of his ear. When he looks over she's dropped her hand, watching him carefully in a way that makes something spark in the back of his mind, electric and compelling and still somehow new.

It seems a long, long time before he can look away. Teagan clears his throat, handing back the bow. "We'd best find something better to shoot at than trees," he manages, trying for lightness and not quite making it. "We've been out here most of the day; we shouldn't come back empty-handed."

_People will think we've been up to something_, he thinks, but there's a glimmer in Leliana's expression, just for a moment, and he wonders if she's thinking the same thing. "We can't have that, now," she answers, and her eyes are still merry but there's something else there, too, something less than innocent that makes him want to be reckless and laugh and find out if her lips are really as soft as they look.

He steps away, collecting himself. "No, of course not. And Alistair's terrible at fishing; if we don't find something we're all likely to go hungry."

"And we can't have that, either," she agrees and starts off again through the trees, turning a little to grin at him over her shoulder, and without another moment's thought Teagan follows.

-oOo-

When Cullen wakes again he's disoriented, though not half so bad as before. At least this time he knows where he is and what he's doing, and once he's got himself properly together he ventures out of the tent, blinking at the afternoon light and heading off in the direction the guard indicates Therrin had gone.

She isn't difficult to track. He isn't even very experienced at it—he'd only been on the one mage-hunt before, and had been more baffled than anything at the near-invisible signs the others had followed—but she's left a trail of dirt piles, half-dug elfroot plants in a bedraggled line through the woods that's almost absurdly easy to follow. It isn't long before he finds her kneeling between two trees, her cloak hanging loosely around her shoulders as she digs. "You're up," she says at the sight of him, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. "You look better," she says appraisingly.

"I feel better," he agrees, sitting down in the dry grass next to her. "Have you been at it all this time?"

"For a while, yes." She pulls out a little section of elfroot, patting the dirt back down again and leaving most of the plant whole. "For a while I was just meandering, trying not to get shot. They're hunting, Teagan and Leliana," she explains at his look of confusion, patting the grey cloak. "Before they headed off east I was worried they'd think I was a bear. I thought it best to stay out of the way."

"Can't you hide?" Cullen asks warily, watching her dust the dirt from her hands. "With magic, I mean."

"I could turn into a mouse, I suppose," Therrin says, thinking it over. "But out here I'd end up dying in the belly of an owl, and that's the sort of thing that really ruins a mage's day."

He nearly protests that it isn't funny but she's looking at him sidelong, faintly mischievous and the littlest bit challenging. "Hmm," he says instead, swallowing his argument and considering. "Is this the part where you say something outrageous to see if I get shocked and we fight about magic?"

Therrin grins. "I don't know. Is this the part where you come find me in the woods and we make mad love against a tree for the rest of the day?"

He  can't help a double-take at that, feeling the back of his neck get warm even as he thinks up against a tree would be scratchy. "You're flirting with me again."

Her grin doesn't budge. "Is it working?"

He tries to come up with something in kind, but can't think of an appropriately brilliant response, or even a good one. "Yes," he admits.

Therrin laughs, pleased. "Good." She cleans her little knife on the edge of her cloak, tucking it away. "I'll only be another minute."

"I'm in no hurry," he says, and leans back against a tree—definitely too scratchy, he decides—and waits as she prepares the stringy root for use. He closes his eyes and listens with half an ear to the noises she makes with knife and pouch, to the birdsong not far away and the wind in the bare branches above. There was never so much natural noise at the Tower. Even the greenhouse was windless and quiet. It seems dead, in comparison with this.

It _was_ dead, for a while.

But those are memories he doesn't want to dwell on, now. There are new places ahead of them, new people. A different Order altogether, he thinks, with a small frown of worry as he opens his eyes.

She glances his way and goes alarmed at his expression. "What's wrong?"

He tries to decide how to word it best. "Grey Wardens don't… they don't have any regulations against this, do they? Against relationships with people outside the Order," he clarifies when she only looks confused.

Wouldn't that be a hard bit of irony, turned out of one set of restrictions and walking right into another?

"Against… no. Well," she corrects, frowning in thought and he tries not to give away how much his stomach lurches at the thought. "Not that I know of," she says at last, mulling it over. "But I have to admit I never made it all the way through the Grey Warden handbook."

Which is not very reassuring, but she's still frowning, working it through. "It doesn't matter," she says at last, more steely than he expects. "I'm the one that killed the Archdemon. If anyone wants to make an issue of it they can run themselves right back to Orlais. I'll rebuild the Wardens myself if I have to."

He sighs in equal parts relief and exasperation. "You can't just bash your way through everything and expect it to work," he protests, but she's grinning.

"You have your methods, and I have mine." But the smile falls away into seriousness. "I'm not giving up so easily," she says, unaware of how it makes hope swell in his chest. "Not now, not on you." She glances at him, looking wry. "I'm stubborn."

Cullen swallows. "I might have noticed that."

Therrin grins, all humor again. "Good. No surprises, then."

It isn't much longer before afternoon starts to bleed over into evening and they head back to camp, crunching slowly through the remnants of dry grass and old leaves in no particular hurry with a warm glow of contentment curling up soft at the back of his mind.

_Fish_, Stephen informs Cullen promptly upon getting back to camp, _have a lot of guts._

There's also a lot of them, and between the young stag Teagan had carried into camp and the dozen-or-so fish Alistair and Stephen and Oghren had caught there's much more food than they can all eat. Even Dog gets his fill and lies groaning in the grass, too stuffed to eat another bite. Stephen wolfs down his food and busies himself climbing a twisted little tree nearby while Leliana waxes her bowstring, humming lightly.

Oghren heads for Cullen and Therrin and sits between them with a grunt, nudging Therrin over and grumbling, "Sodding cheating _witch_."

Cullen can't help but stare at him, offended, but Therrin only looks smug. "I didn't cheat. You have to have rules to break rules."

Oghren only growls good-naturedly, scratching his chin and giving Cullen a long, considering glance. "If you're gonna cheat, I'm changing the stakes."

Cullen frowns over at Therrin, baffled. "Cheating?"

"Friendly wager," Oghren rumbles by way of explanation. "I'll think about it. Let some ideas rattle around the old noggin. See if we can't make this interesting."

"You do that," Therrin says, amused.

Oghren nudges her with a shoulder again, rising to his feet. "You should know better by now than to go up against ol' Oghren when there's liquor on the line." He snickers, glancing back across the fire at Leliana. "I'll just let you know."

Therrin watches him go, and then slides back over to where she'd been by Cullen's side. "In case I've just doomed myself completely," she tells him, "it's been nice knowing you."

Trepidation itches at the back Cullen's brain. "What do you think he means by interesting?"

"I don't know," she admits, frowning as though she can't work it through. "But it's Oghren. I'm sure we'll find out."


	28. The Faithful Soldier

The day of rest seems to have done them all good, Cullen thinks, even if only measured in the pace they're able to achieve the next day. With the weather bright and clear and the party relaxed they're able to pack up early, hours of travel behind them by mid-morning and spirits generally high.

Some spirits particularly high. Cullen gets the feeling he's being tested.

Technically it's Stephen that's being tested. His discovery of an unmelted patch of snow by a fallen log leads to an impromptu lecture on the (apparently myriad) uses of ice spells, which devolves rather quickly into a spirited snowball fight. Both mages summon snow and fling handfuls of powder at each other, laughing as Dog leaps up and snaps at the snowballs as they whiz by. To everyone else it's just a game, it seems—the king chuckles at the sight and Leliana scoops up an errant snowball that lands at her feet, tossing it back and hitting Therrin squarely in the back of the head—but to Cullen the game seems to drag him in opposing directions.

Magic is not a toy. Magic has purposes, and consequences, and isn't to be used lightly.

But on the other hand…

They'd never played like this before, at the Tower. Stephen's laughter seems to fill up the whole road and Therrin seems younger somehow, at ease and happy in a way he hasn't seen since… well. Since before her Harrowing. When the game's done Stephen is red-cheeked and pleasantly tired, slinging an arm around Therrin and wrinkling his nose when she ruffles his hair fondly.

"They are very cute, aren't they?" Leliana says, falling into step beside him. "They make a sweet pair."

"I suppose so," Cullen answers carefully, wary of Leliana's knowing expression.

"It is good to see her happy again. She cares for him, I believe." A measuring look, sidelong. "And for you."

Cullen doesn't answer, uncertain. He wonders for a moment if she's trying to warn him not to interfere with Therrin's happiness, magical or not, but she only asks, "Do you know how hard it is to make flowers bloom out of season?"

"No," he admits, wondering what that has to do with anything.

Leliana's mouth purses and she huffs a little in frustration. "Hmph. She is not a good liar, but still."

Without any warning at all the king and Therrin come to a halt and the air goes brittle. The world erupts into noise as creatures appear as out of nowhere and there's no time to think; they're under attack by monsters, horrors, and it only belatedly occurs to him that these are darkspawn. The creatures charge with weapons out, the king's guards are shouting and there's the ring of steel as Alistair charges into the fray. The clatter of metal and high, shouted commands merge with the roar of the creatures, a blurring whirl of noise and movement and Cullen's reaching for his sword when the ground lurches and yanks itself out from beneath him, and before he knows it he is flat on his back on the road staring up at the sun.

Leliana is pulling at him, shouting something and he can barely hear it for the shaking of the ground beneath him, but her gesture's clear enough: get out of the way! It takes a couple of tries, perilous seconds lost until he can get his bearings, scramble up and stagger far enough out of spell-reach so that he can draw his sword and rush at the nearest darkspawn, a monstrous, hissing thing close to Teagan. Magic roars in a lightning storm, close and thick in the air, prickling across his skin along with another kind of magic, different and not-Therrin and vile.

"The emissary!" Alistair shouts and it's a command but Cullen doesn't know what it means. Therrin darts out from behind a tree to freeze a trio of darkspawn a half-second before Alistair's sword shatters one into pieces, crystalline and sparkling in the sunlight. The other two topple like statues into the road and Dog and Oghren lunge their direction, deadly and quick. There are arrows whizzing by, unnervingly close; Cullen's half-afraid Leliana's going to hit him but there's a pair of darkspawn rushing him and no thought to spare for anything else. His sword is sure and steady in his hands and his training serves him well. A crunching slash later and his armor is spattered in blood, and there are fewer of the monsters, and then even fewer, and Teagan is beside him and together they rush for the last cluster of darkspawn, blades at the ready.

He hadn't even known that darkspawn _had_ mages but he can feel it emanating from the creature in a hiss of energy that rakes along his mind unpleasantly. Alistair shouts for Therrin and he can't see her but he can hear a bitten-off curse and Dog leaps over to the tree she's ducked behind. Though the other darkspawn are charging his senses are riveted by the spell being cast by the darkspawn mage, and then the others are close, too close, he's fighting again, instinctive and automatic, straining to stay upright as a blow from one of the creatures catches him in the shoulder and knocks him off-balance.

Magic, again, magic, Therrin's and the creature's sliding against each other like mountains clashing in a discordant heave he can feel in every inch of his skin. Another of the monsters rushes up at him and it falls at the edge of his blade, and there is shouting nearby, Teagan and then Therrin, pained, and a last unsteady jerk of magic. As abruptly as it began it ends, the road going quiet, the darkspawn dead.

There's a moment of uncertainty as he half-expects more of the monsters to come—how they'd appeared from nowhere is more unsettling than he wants to admit—but the king gives a wry-sounding laugh and Therrin is grumbling, wiping blood off her mouth with her sleeve and looking generally embarrassed. "I told you you'd be rusty," Alistair says, glancing back at the group.

Therrin's response is both obscene and physically impossible.

Alistair seems in high spirits and the jab doesn't dampen them at all. He reaches out to touch Therrin's bloody lip and she swats his hand away. "Didn't think you'd take a shield to the face, though. You're really bad at this."

Therrin glares at him a moment, turning and raising her voice. "Is anyone hurt?"

"You are," Alistair points out.

"Is anyone _dying?_" Therrin amends, exasperated.

Alistair holds out his hand. "I think I got a splinter."

"I think we're all more or less in one piece," Teagan answers, bemused and watching Leliana examine one of the fallen darkspawn.

Stephen crawls out from behind the tree, scowling at Therrin, bits of grass and leaves in his hair. "Dog sat on me."

"He was supposed to," she retorts as Dog bounds over for approval and she scratches behind his ears. "Did you see anything?"

"_No_."

"Good."

Stephen looks sulky. "I can fight." But at Therrin's frown look he slumps, dejected. "What happened to your face?"

Alistair's laugh gets cut short by Therrin's glare. "Just a bump, is all." Cullen feels the drawing feeling of magic a moment before he sees the healing spell take shape, the bleeding drying up, the beginnings of a bruise retreating into normal-looking skin. "Nothing serious," she manages, immediately concerned at the sight of Cullen. "Are you hurt? You didn't get it…"

"No," he assures her immediately, "I'm fine."

"The blood," she finishes, distressed. "You can't get it on you, any of it."

Cullen examines his shoulder, and wipes at his neck to be sure. "I didn't."

"You need better armor," Therrin grouses, glancing uneasily around. "We all need better protection. We need to be out of here." The three of them fall into step at the front of the little band, heading down the road. "We're not far out from Lothering, from what Belinda was saying."

Alistair glances over, skeptical. "You think we should go to Lothering?"

"No. It's a midway point, is all. I think we have very good reasons to stay out of Lothering." Therrin tips her head back Leliana's direction.

Alistair nods in understanding. "Right."

Therrin shakes her head. "I'll be so much happier when we get to Denerim and off this road."

"Leliana's going to take you shopping," he reminds her.

"It'll be worth it. And don't go charging into battle like that," she snaps in afterthought. "You're the king; you're not supposed to be first to run into the fray."

"I'm a Grey Warden," he snaps back. "The whole thing, killing darkspawn? In the job description. You're just huffy because I'm better at it than you are."

Therrin gives him an exasperated look. "Don't be an idiot." She glances up at Cullen and waves a hand back at the darkspawn, already fading into the distance. "Well. Now you've seen it."

Cullen considers a moment, uncertain of what to say. It isn't just the darkspawn, he thinks, it's magic. It's her. The memory of the whole world seeming to move beneath him sticks in his mind, improbable in its power, but all he says is, "You knocked me down."

"You get used to it," Alistair offers with amused glace in Cullen's direction. "You learn how to work with it, how to stay out of the way." He laughs a bit, wryly. "Therrin will have to get used to not bashing her face into things again."

She scowls. "I'm used to there being a man with a shield on that side, you know."

"I… yes." A troubled look flickers across his face, just for a moment and then it's gone. "Sorry about that."

Therrin sighs, almost inaudibly. "Don't worry about it."

An awkward silence follows as they continue down the road, as the horses plod along obediently and Therrin and Alistair watch everything but one another. Cullen clears his throat. "I didn't know darkspawn had magic."

"The emissaries do," Therrin answers immediately, seizing on the subject. "They're not… common. Or they're not supposed to be." She frowns at the ground, kicking at the road. "Sometimes they feel like they're behind every rock and tree."

Cullen considers a moment. "They don't feel like anything I'm familiar with."

Therrin frowns, glancing up at him askance. "Feel?"

"They're different," Alistair confirms, nodding. "Darkspawn emissaries feel different from a human mage. Templar things," he explains offhand at Therrin's skeptical look. "You wouldn't understand."

She only looks perplexed. "How does it feel different?"

But there isn't a chance to answer. Figures pour from the trees, battle-cries ringing out and weapons raised and before Cullen can blink they're embattled again. He yanks his sword free to face the darkspawn only to come abruptly face-to-face with a man, bearded and roaring and the surprise of it makes him hesitate a heartbeat too long. A mace crashes into his side before he can block it and the wave of pain that follows rattles his bones and makes him clench his teeth. Magic pours through the air, thick and instinctive and it grates over the pain in his body, the feel of desperate lightning-ice-lightning leaving his head spinning and his stomach rebelling and he wants to shout at her to stop. But the attackers—_people_, why are they being attacked by _people?_—are falling at her feet in waves.

The last time he'd seen a mage fighting for her life had been at the Tower, with Uldred and the abominations and the thought doesn't help any. Alistair dives in front of her, turning aside the sweep of a sword that would have caught her in the chest, and then Teagan scrambles to get in front of _him_ and there's so much shouting and chaos he almost misses it when an arrow whistles close, vicious and sharp and meant for the king but stopped by Teagan's body. There's a sharp cry of pain and a feminine shout of alarm—Leliana—and when Cullen turns she's being rushed, her bow torn away as she pulls a dagger free, and faster than thought Cullen charges and cuts down her attackers one and then the other.

Cullen turns for the next enemy, the next hit, just in time to see a flash of dual swords and a slight figure charging into the fray, blond and laughing and shoving Therrin into the dirt out of the way of a longsword.

After that the battle turns in a matter of seconds. Oghren's axe is deadly and the king's guards are efficient, and with her bow back in her hands Leliana fires off a pair of arrows that drop another man. In the immediate aftermath the only sounds are of labored breathing, Stephen's muffled squalling as he tries to squirm out from underneath Dog and laughter, rich and pleased as the blond…elf? stands over Therrin, a blade out and a wide grin across his face. "I think I want to savor this for a moment," he says to Therrin, the words heavily accented. "The turnabout is a little delicious, no?"

Cullen's ready to strike again and cut the elf down but Oghren grabs his arm and shakes his head, scowling. The elf extends a hand and Therrin takes it and he hauls her to her feet, easily.

"You pick your damn moments, Zevran," she growls, disheveled and dirt-streaked and unsteady. "You couldn't have shown up two minutes earlier?"

He merely laughs. "But then you wouldn't have been nearly so pleased to see me when you did."

Therrin only pushes her tangled hair from her face, and then one of the fallen men groans and reaches out, catching hold of her ankle. She startles, unleashing a lightning spell immediately that shakes the man with a jolt as he falls dead into the road.

The elf sighs. "I was saving him, you know."

"For what?" Therrin asks.

"For questioning. Dead men can't talk, my dear. Are you familiar with the word 'overkill?'"

"Sorry," Therrin manages, prodding the dead man dazedly with the tip of her staff.

"I believe he's dead," the elf chides lightly. "You are rather thorough when it comes to killing men who try to feel under your skirts."

Therrin leans on her staff, glancing worriedly at the rest of the group. "Is anyone hurt?"

They are, this time: two of the king's guards bleeding heavily, and Teagan with an arrow protruding from his hip and Cullen's ribs protesting in a way that makes him think a few of them might be broken. They shuffle more or less into a line at the roadside and Cullen warily sheathes his sword, still distrustful of the elf and resting a hand on Stephen's shoulder when he finally wriggles away from Dog and presses close. "Are you all right?"

Stephen looks up, troubled, and sidles in closer, hugging Cullen's side—which hurts—but Cullen just pats his back, as reassuring as he can be under the circumstances. "Who's that?" Stephen demands, skeptical and looking at the elf with distrust.

The elf glances over, amused. "Who are you?"

"He's mine," Therrin says distractedly, pulling a spell together and not noticing the elf's double-take.

"Yours? You…"

"Zevran Arainai," Therrin explains shortly. The first of the guards breathes a sigh of relief, the wound closing in a bright shimmer of magic. "Old friend."

"Friend?" Zevran grins. "I'm touched. But," he continues with a dubious look at Stephen, "you never mentioned you had a child."

"Apprentice," Therrin corrects briefly, and at his side Cullen can feel Stephen shrink in disappointment.

"Ah." Zevran examines Therrin's handiwork critically. "Wynne would already be done by now, you realize."

"I'm not Wynne." Another pull of magic and there's light in her hands, her eyes going blank. "Wynne's an actual healer. I'm much better at blowing people apart than putting them back together again."

"Amell," Leliana admonishes as the other guard edges away from Therrin, looking alarmed.

"Oh, not you," she says impatiently, releasing the spell into the retreating guard and eyeing Teagan. "We're going to have to pull that arrow, you know."

Teagan attempts a smile, flickering and wan. "I thought as much. Too much to hope that you've got an arsenal of arrow-dissolving spells at hand?" At Therrin's grimace, he says, "It's not as bad as all that. See to him first. Thank you," he finishes as Oghren hands him a flask.

Therrin frowns, momentarily uncertain. "Are you sure? You don't… you don't feel quite right."

Teagan makes a dismissive gesture. "A bit lightheaded. I've been in worse shape and it's nothing vital; go on."

With a shrug she turns to Cullen and her glance up at him is uncertain. When she draws magic for the spell he can feel the fatigue in it, but as soon as it washes into him there's a trickle of relief as his ribs knit and the pain fades. He feels magic tracing the shape of him like the ghost-touch of her hands before  she bends to look at Stephen on his level. "Are you all right?"

Stephen hesitates, clutching at Cullen's armor, but he nods anyway. Therrin's smile is weak. "Good boy."

It feels wrong, nagging at some soft spot in Cullen's heart. Stephen shouldn't have to just nod and bear this; battle and blood and death aren't supposed to be something a little boy should have to just shrug off. He catches hold of Therrin's shoulder as she straightens. "We should talk. Later."

She seems baffled for a moment but nods before kneeling in the road beside Teagan, tugging the hem of her robe from where it's snagged on a rock. "I can put you under, if you want. Make you sleep while I pull the arrow, so you don't feel it."

Teagan considers a moment, paler than before. "It does sound better than the alternative."

"Trust me, it is," Alistair says, glaring out into the trees as he approaches.

"Very well." Teagan takes a deep breath. "I'll bow to the voice of experience."

Magic begins to gather again, Therrin's eyes going blank as the spell builds. "This should only take a moment," she assures him, and there's a shudder as she releases the spell and Teagan's eyes close. She catches him as he slumps, limp and unconscious, settling him carefully onto the ground.

Zevran crouches lightly next to Leliana at Teagan's other side. "Did you just happen to be around?" Leliana asks pointedly, brows drawn together in a frown. "On a stroll through the forest with nothing better to do?"

"Of course not," Zevran answers, faintly reproachful. "Me? Out here? The forest is boring, my dear, and I am a man of action. In this case, I was following orders."

Therrin and Alistair both turn, wary. "Whose orders?" she asks carefully.

He smiles. "Yours, of course."

"My…" Therrin mutters, rubbing her forehead, pained. "I didn't give you any orders."

Zevran gives a delicate cough. "Yes. You did."

Therrin sighs, leaning away from Teagan and looking puzzled and not very patient. "Spell it out for me, Zevran. Small words."

Zevran flashes a quick, white grin. "You said that if anything were to happen to you, I was to take care of _his_ ungrateful ass," he says cheerily with a jerk of his head to indicate Alistair. "Your words, not mine, of course."

"Of course," Therrin echoes, slumping and confused. "But that was months ago, before the Archdemon."

"And nothing's happened to her," Alistair interjects, annoyed.

"No?" Zevran's smile becomes less pleasant as he looks up at the king. "I have some experience with death, you know. It is in the nature of wounded things to crawl back home to die."

Cold prickles along the back of Cullen's neck at the words, at the accompanying memory of Therrin as she'd been when she'd come back to the Tower, hollow-eyed and terribly empty, and Alistair opens his mouth to protest but Therrin's faster. "Don't. Really. We've got problems enough." She bends down over Teagan, takes hold of the arrow shaft and pulls. Once the arrow's out and she tosses it away, Leliana's hands come down hard to press on the wound. Therrin pulls together a spell and he can feel the effort of it as the flesh begins to knit. "There. Now—"

On the ground, Teagan's hands clench once, spasming, and begins shaking all over, convulsing heavily as Leliana gives a wordless cry of distress and Therrin's reaching for magic again.

"Wake him up," Alistair commands, tense and worried.

"I'm trying." It isn't working. There's desperation in the spells she's casting, thready and panicked as she pushes magic into his skin. It seems a very long time before Teagan stops shaking and goes utterly still, limp as a corpse and hardly breathing.

Zevran rises and snatches up the discarded arrow, biting out a thick string of words Cullen doesn't know but which are almost certainly curses. "It's poisoned," he says, holding it up. "See the grooves? Better for the poison to circulate into the blood."

Therrin looks sick. "I didn't know."

"No, of course not." Zevran frowns at Teagan. "We should wake him, and quickly."

She tries again, to no avail. "I can't," Therrin admits, a little despairing and glancing up at Alistair. "It's not working."

A chorus of wolves howls not far off and Cullen reaches for his sword again, automatically. But no attack comes, not then, though the guards shift uneasily and a chill seems to run through everyone. "Therrin," Alistair begins, concerned.

She shakes her head, tired and grave. "We can't do this. Not with more darkspawn around. What are the chances those aren't blight wolves?" Alistair grimaces. "We're too exposed out here," Therrin continues. She reaches across Teagan to take one of Leliana's hands in her own and their fingers intertwine, sticky with blood. "We can figure out what to do once we're safer but this isn't any kind of position we can defend. When the darkspawn come again, or more assassins—"

"Mercenaries," Zevran corrects.

"Mercenaries." Therrin looks defeated. "The darkspawn are close. We've got to find shelter. The sooner we can get him stabilized and cared for the better."

Alistair shifts, uncomfortable. "Shelter. I'm assuming you don't mean setting up camp."

"No." Dog pads over to Therrin, whining and nosing at her ear and she rubs the back of his neck distractedly. "We've got to try to find something more secure."

"You mean…"

"Lothering," Therrin finishes when Alistair trails off. "He could be out for the day, and maybe tomorrow; we've got to have a place we can have some hope of defending. I don't see another choice." She glances again at Leliana, heartsick. "I'm sorry."

When she pushes to her feet and heads for her bag of medicines Cullen follows, glancing back as the king's guard lift Teagan up. When he turns back to Therrin her hands are shaking on the buckles of her pack. _You're drained_, he almost chides, _you need a lyrium potion_, and then he remembers that she doesn't have any and that he's the reason why. "What's in Lothering?" he asks instead, standing at her shoulder uneasy and quiet.

Therrin huffs a humorless laugh, mouth twisting into a grimace. "Ghosts. If we're lucky, there'll be nothing but ghosts."

He doesn't know what that means and she doesn't elaborate, but nothing in their shared history gives him any hope that luck will have anything to do with it. There's an ashen quiet that falls over the party as they fashion a stretcher for Teagan and carry him on, huddling together closer and making their way towards Lothering. With Therrin at his shoulder and Stephen at his other side holding tightly to his hand, Cullen prays that whatever is in Lothering won't be more than they can face.


	29. The Commander's Burden

The first time Therrin had walked to Lothering was difficult, with the enormity of the task before her blotting out almost everything else, and Alistair mourning Duncan and Morrigan watching them both with a sharp-edged skepticism she hadn't bothered to hide, looking out longingly into the woods as though she would have liked nothing more than to disappear on the spot.

The second time is even worse.

Highest on her list of worries is Teagan. None of the magic she'd learned at the Tower or under Wynne's tutelage on the road had prepared her for pouring spell after spell into a man who doesn't respond at all. There's an edge of hysteria in the thought tickling at the back of her brain: _Maker help me, if I've got to go _back_ to the Urn for _more_ ashes for _another_ Guerrin brother…_

Not that it's entirely out of the question. Leliana is stricken, eyes full of a worry that makes guilt push at Therrin's heart, and though she hopes it doesn't come to it, she'll do what she has to, whatever she can do, to make this better. But in the aftermath of the first attack she can feel the darkspawn emerging in the spaces around them, as though she can hear them becoming aware of her and Alistair. It crawls down the back of her brain, sluggish as mud through her tainted veins and heightening the feeling of unease.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, Cullen is annoyed at her for some reason and Dog… "What?" she demands at last, glancing sharply downward. "You've been glaring at me for ten minutes; what's wrong?"

Dog pins his ears back, exasperated. You are not a very good mother.

Therrin blinks. "What?"

Your pup is afraid. The Alpha is supposed to take better care of the pack. Dog growls, dissatisfied and rubbing his nose on the inside of one foreleg.

"My pu… Stephen?" It comes out high and thin and more than a little incredulous, and she glances up the road to where Stephen and Cullen are walking together and swallows hard. "I'm not his mother, Dog."

Dog growls again, but before Therrin can retort there's a stir of alarm from up the road as Teagan goes into convulsions again. She runs forward, reaching into her pack automatically, a bottle clinking under her hands that she fears won't help but she doesn't know what else to do.

Sure enough, she can't even get any of the tonic down his throat. It trickles out of his mouth uselessly, a thin stream of green disappearing down into the cloth below him. By the time his convulsions stop, Teagan looks more wrung out than before. She nearly startles at the hand on her shoulder, but Zevran is careful, still holding the arrow. "I think I know this poison," he says.

From his expression she already knows that whatever it is, it isn't good. "Oh?"

His glance is thick with meaning, the littlest bit sardonic. "You have not forgotten that I am an assassin, yes? It is how we met."

"You said those men were mercenaries, though. And Teagan isn't dead." _Yet_, she finishes silently.

"No, no. If this is what I think it is—and it has been some time since I saw its like, so there is a chance I am wrong—it isn't a poison meant to kill." A line appears between Zevran's brows as he regards the arrow. "Incapacitate, yes, but I don't believe this was meant to be fatal. Otherwise, why aim so low?"

"Incapacitate," Alistair echoes from her other side, frowning and worried as they share a glance. "So this is temporary, then, he'll sleep it off?"

Zevran shakes his head, once. "Not exactly. This is the sort of thing one uses when a target needs to be out of the way for some time—not exactly an afternoon's nap. I've never used it myself, however." His glance at the arrow is troubled. "And I don't know that the shaking is in the expected course of things."

Therrin thinks it over but comes up with no solutions. "Thank you," she says finally, with a look at Zevran. "I didn't know you were still in Denerim; I didn't… I wouldn't have held you to your oath after the battle."

_I'm sorry for leaving you behind, I ran away without thinking_, she almost admits, but Alistair is a foot away and bringing it up now only seems likely to stack more trouble on top of everything else.

Zevran shrugs. "It was no trouble. You left me plenty of coin, and there were a great many people lining up to buy drinks for the dearest bosom friend of the famous Warden. I was…" He grins, white and amused. "Let us say I was not exactly lonely."

Despite everything, there's a flicker of amusement at the thought, but it dies as the top of the Chantry's symbol slides into view over the hills, a reminder that they'll be in Lothering within the hour.

A sharp jerk of pain in her fingers yanks her attention down and Therrin can hardly believe it and nearly yelps _you bit me!_ Dog looks guilty, tail tucked and ears low, and with a sinking of unease she glances over to where Stephen's holding tight to Cullen's hand. "I don't know what you want me to do! I can't make him not be afraid," Therrin says, low enough only Dog and Zevran can hear her properly and ignoring Alistair's curious look. "I can't make the darkspawn leave us alone and I don't know what we're walking into. Look, once we're in Amaranthine—"

He wants you to be more than you are, Dog explains patiently, as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

"Yeah, well he can get in line," Therrin grumbles, only to have Dog nip sharply at her fingers again. "Ow!" She shakes her hand to get rid of the sting and complains, "My own dog is turning on me."

Zevran quirks an eyebrow. "Perhaps this should be a sign you are doing something wrong?"

Dog barks happily.

"Yes, you're very smart," she mutters, trying to dispel the vague feeling of panic slipping into her mind. "No. Fine. I'll talk to him." She leaves Dog, keeping her hands out of nipping-range, and Alistair falls into step beside her.

 "About time I had a talk with Cullen, I think. Not about you." He laughs at her expression. "Not everything in the world is about you, you know."

Irritation prickles like ant bites across her skin. "Fine."

They walk a few steps in uncomfortable silence, until Alistair gives a rueful smile and says, "This is weird, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Therrin agrees, absurdly grateful because now that it's been said it feels, somehow, less weird, as though pretending it was all normal was half the problem in the first place. "But I don't know. We've been through weirder, I think."

"Definitely. That whole thing with the werewolves," he answers, seizing on the subject with relief. "Remember that? Talking dogs, or elves that hate you. Decisions, decisions."

"And there were fleas in everything for days," Therrin says, but it only makes Alistair laugh. "What?"

"You're such a priss sometimes; I'd forgotten. Oh no, fleas! Rain! Dirt!" He grins. "Not something anyone much worried about in the stables, you know."

Yes, perhaps she'd been a bit… finicky… from time to time because after the relative sterility of the Tower the world had seemed unrelentingly dirty, but she huffs a little and glances back up at Alistair, eyebrow raised. "There's a difference in being a priss and just not caring. I distinctly remember you telling Teagan the last time he'd seen you you were covered in mud."

"I was ten—" But at the mention of Teagan Alistair's humor dies immediately and when his eyes cut over to the stretcher they're flooded with worry.

"Alistair—"

"It should have been me," he interrupts, low and rough. "One arrow in the entire attack and he was aiming for me, I know it."

"He'll be all right. He will," she insists at Alistair's expression.

"I don't know how to fix this," he protests faintly.

_Then let me fix it_, she almost says, but in all honesty she doesn't know how. "Let me worry about Teagan," she says instead, ignoring the feeling of shouldering something heavy. "You worry about… cheese, or giant rats, or whatever it is kings are supposed to worry about." They walk a few steps in silence, somehow less uncomfortable than before. "It's called 'delegating.'"

His glance down is a little skeptical. "What would you know about delegating?"

There's a ripping feeling in her head, again, and without any more warning than that the darkspawn are upon them, again, and it's only a handful but with Teagan down and everyone shaken up already it might as well be a horde. There's a howling inside her skull, the uneasy awareness of the darkspawn around them sparking down her nerves in dark points of unholy fire, here an alpha and there an emissary and Alistair's sword is already in his hands—impossibly fast, he must have felt it before she did—and everyone's moving.

Alistair pushes Cullen by the shoulder and they hurtle toward the emissary. She feels Stephen three steps away and suddenly alone so she closes the gap and yanks him close, magic already building in her hands. There's a moment of overlap, a split-second in her brain of memory pressing close, of being very small and getting in the way of one of the senior enchanter's spells, and of his hard tug on her arm as he pulled her into the eye of the storm, laughing at her awe as lightning had swirled around them both.

This is nothing like as pretty as that had been.

There's the strange double awareness that comes of being half-lost in the pull of power, of seeing and sensing at the same time, the lives around Therrin sparks of stars against a deep blackness. She can hear the echo of magic in Stephen as he clutches at her, horrified, magic pouring into him out of instinctive self-preservation. Over there are darkspawn coming, rushing at them, and there, heading for Teagan.

The Fade feels close, pressing at the back of her brain as she reaches for the spell and lets it go, barely giving it a chance to build because there isn't time. Then the wind picks up and hisses, the blizzard whirling its way into the darkspawn. The grunt falls heavily, dead before it hits the ground, but the alpha struggles on, maw open and axe free but slow, near-creaking with cold. And then Cullen's there, his sword rising in a sweep that cleaves the creature's head from its shoulders and it's over.

In the aftermath of battle the blizzard goes thready and thin, the wind dying back to a gasp. Stephen shivers at her side, and when he lets go he brushes snowflakes from his hair, looking much less happy at the presence of snow than he had before. "It will get better soon," she tells him, not sure how to say anything more than that.

But Cullen is frowning, confused, looking around uneasily at the dead darkspawn, and her heart sinks a moment as she recognizes the lack of comprehension in his eyes. "Cullen," she manages, her voice seeming loud in her ears.

He blinks at her a moment, baffled. "Therrin?"

"And that's why we handle the emissaries first," Alistair says, grimly satisfied and wiping his blade clean.

Cullen's sword dips in his hands and he's still frowning, looking warily at the road as though he suspects he's dreaming. "We're not…"

"We're almost to Lothering," she reminds him, uncomfortably aware of Alistair's sharp glance. "There are pockets of darkspawn around."

Alistair sheathes his sword. "What's going on?"

"Just…" Therrin begins, pleading silently _come on, stay with us, don't do this now_. Almost as if in response Cullen gives his head a heavy shake and rubs at his brow as though he could clear his mind.

"Lothering," he repeats numbly.

Alistair looks dubious, glancing at the two of them. "Is everything all right?"

Cullen frowns at Therrin again, pained, and then shakes his head again, straightening a bit and sheathing his sword. "I thought _you_ killed that emissary before."

"What?" Alistair makes a scoffing sound. "Is she stealing credit again?" But Cullen doesn't respond and over his shoulder, Alistair's eyebrows draw together in concern_. Lyrium?_ he mouths silently.

As subtly as she can, Therrin nods.

Alistair doesn't bother to hide his wince.

"Come on." Though he still looks bewildered Cullen doesn't protest as she steps close and takes his arm, guiding him forward and towing Stephen along. Maker help her but if it comes to it she will carry every one of them to Lothering if only to get them all out of this terrible, vulnerable openness, out from underneath the sky stretching wide and empty above them and the darkspawn at the edges of her senses.

For a moment, just a moment, she wishes she could have stayed at the Tower, but she grits her teeth and pushes it aside, and before the afternoon is out they're in Lothering.

Or rather, what's left of it in the aftermath of the Blight.

-oOo-

Cullen is dreaming.

At least, he thinks he's dreaming, or… he isn't sure. But it feels that way, as though his mind's gone out fuzzy at the edges, as though time is drifting and spinning in lazy circles, and every time he comes back to himself—or wakes up, or whatever it is—he's walking.

He feels like he's been walking forever.

He doesn't know why or… or where (_Lothering_, Therrin reminds him, over and over, and why she's here on the road with him he's not sure but if this isn't a dream… why in the world would they be headed for Lothering?) but he's with some sort of caravan in a grim march down the road and he can't get oriented. It's as though his sense of direction's gone useless, the sun in the wrong place and the compass in his head unreliable and…

Why isn't he in the Tower?

Greagoir will be furious.

But no, Greagoir is… gone? Dead? (So many of the templars had died.)

Usually he'd be coming off his watch, wouldn't he? And he would go eat (only he isn't hungry, he aches all over and there's a spike of pain between his eyes that makes his fingers itch for lyrium to soothe it) and he would go to the chantry for afternoon prayers (the chantry had been desecrated by blood mages, befouled by abominations, his brothers had screamed for days) and...

In the middle of the road he stops, dizzy and reeling, sucking in deep gulps of air and struggling for clarity that's ever just there and not quite close enough.

"Cullen?"

When he looks over it's Therrin and his heart twists, hard, because her Harrowing is tomorrow and he wants to tell her (he can't, he's forbidden, and if anything happens he'll have to cut her down himself and it makes him sick to think of and in any case Greagoir will be disappointed if he doesn't steel himself for his duty like a proper templar) but the world is drifting and lurching and she looks worried.

(Don't upset the mages; a panicked mage is a dangerous mage.)

But this has to be a dream because she's touching him, her hand on his arm and she's not supposed to touch him. If anyone sees he'll be in trouble… no, it's a dream, he's had dreams like this before. With the pair of them out in the sunlight, with his... and his templar armor's gone, and they're together, and though it's a little disorienting it's familiar, in a way, and since it's only a dream he follows, not knowing if he walks for hours or days but only that he's walking.

There's a ferocious ache behind his eyes as everything clicks into place again, as the disorientation vanishes and leaves in its wake a terrible clarity, the whole world bright and sharp, the fog in his brain burned off in an instant. Therrin is still here, and still worried, glancing at him edgewise. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," he manages, and his voice sounds thick to his own ears. When she holds out a waterskin he drinks, clearing the dust from his throat and it makes his head feel lighter. "I'll be glad to get inside, though. I think I might need..." _to lie down, to sleep_, but all that sounds pathetic in his head and with Alistair still on Therrin's other side some fitful little burst of stubbornness won't let him actually come out and admit weakness, not then.

"Rest?" she finishes carefully, looking hopeful.

He nods, handing back the skin. "Perhaps a little. I'm fine." At the quick tilt of her eyebrow he shrugs.

"So," Zevran begins, slipping close to Therrin and giving Cullen a skeptical glance, "when did you decide you needed a bodyguard? You are quite adept at guarding your own body, as I recall. It seems a curious development."

It might be his imagination that Therrin colors slightly; he doesn't know. "Cullen's not a bodyguard."

Zevran's eyebrows rise. "No?"

Therrin shakes her head.

Zevran peers up at him, standing entirely too close and looking him over appraisingly. "You must work fast, my dear. You have been on the road less than a week? And already men are falling in line. We must discuss your methods; perhaps I taught you better than I thought. Unless this is another of your delightful strays you picked up on a whim. That _never_ gets old."

"He's from the Tower," Therrin protests. "Cullen isn't a stray."

"The Tower," Zevran repeats, musing. "And yet not a mage. Which means..." At the sight of Therrin biting at her lip he heaves a longsuffering sigh. "Really, my dear? A templar? _Again?_" Therrin does flush a bit then, shooting Zevran an annoyed glance. "Do they teach you mages no self-preservation at all?" Zevran complains.

Therrin blinks. "No."

"Ah." And Zevran doesn't quite grin but his amusement is clear enough. "I suppose not. Still," he continues, smirking at Cullen and looking oddly measuring, "I approve."

Therrin frowns in confusion. "You do?"

"Of course." He shrugs, an easy movement. "She is a naughty minx of a woman," he informs Cullen seriously, and he only grins at Cullen's expression. "She needs watching, close watching. I offer my services in this area should you require assistance." At Therrin's irritated glance he gives an odd, flourishing bow, only a little mocking. "Of course, as our fearless leader is a dangerous sex goddess, I generally find it most prudent to watch from behind." And with that he laughs and ducks easily away from Therrin, who might have been about to shove him, Cullen can't tell.

"Sex goddess?" he echoes, Zevran still laughing behind them.

"I never," Therrin says, cheeks flaming. "Not... Zevran." But then there's a noise of alarm behind them and Teagan's convulsing again, and Therrin grimaces and races back to the stretcher. Long minutes later when it's over, she catches back up and doesn't speak, mouth set in an unhappy line.

"Are we close to Lothering, do you think?" Cullen asks, just to have something to say.

Therrin glances around. "We're getting there. Dog," she calls quietly, leaning down to scratch his ears as he bounds up to her side. "I don't know what we're walking into. Can you keep Stephen busy at the back of things for a while? Just in case?"

Dog gives a quick, affirmative bark and lopes away.

Cullen glances uneasily down the road, blinking a moment because the sunlight is dazzlingly bright and it makes him lightheaded. "Do you expect more darkspawn? Or the..." What had they been called? "More ghouls?"

"I don't know," she answers, so quiet he has to lean in to hear her. "I know that darkspawn are around, but... I don't know how many people weren't able to evacuate from Lothering in the first place." She swallows, hard. "We never went back."

There doesn't seem to be much to say to that, so he matches her pace and follows, and in the span of a few strides his headache begins to dull—which is a relief, and maybe he doesn't need the rest after all—and the sunlight doesn't seem quite so piercingly bright as before and that's a relief too.

Now if only the ache would go away—but it's no worse than the ache had been when he'd started wearing templar armor every day (Maker above, templar armor is so heavy, and he didn't know at first how he could bear it every day but now he doesn't know what he'd do without it—)

But he isn't wearing it, he's wearing... something else. It's light on his shoulders and foreign and doesn't fit well and where is his real armor? This isn't made for him, this is... this is wrong, somehow, and he feels as though he's been walking forever. (He is tired, so tired, he'd been kept awake for days at the Tower and if he could only...)

He's dreaming.

Isn't he?

He doesn't know this road—these people—and that's... that's Therrin, isn't it? But she looks different in a hundred little ways (and he would know, it's embarrassing that he would know because this is absurd for a templar, there's something wrong with him and Greagoir has already reprimanded him over it once). When his watch is over he'll pray; maybe the sisters will have guidance—but no, he's not on watch, he is dreaming of walking, his pulse is crawling by slowly and beating dully in his ears like the closing of the heavy door at the Tower.

(Greagoir will have closed the door, will have called for Annulment, Maker give us strength.)

And there it is, just there, the holy symbol of Andraste rising high above the ground, and they are—and he doesn't know when they came to a village (where _is_ this?) but there's a dwarf scowling at the horizon and Cullen nearly trips over him because he can't seem to stop walking and the fog around his brain presses in close, cold and dark as the lake.

There was... there was a lake, wasn't there?

(Of course there was a lake, he should know, he's lived there for years.)

A trickle of memory runs cold down the heart of him, of dragging Therrin out of the lake water, half-mad with despair and something he didn't have a name for, of leaning in and kissing her—but no, he wouldn't, that's _insane_ because he is a templar and he knows his duty.

There are veils in his mind, dozens of veils. They press in close like moth-wings, dull and opaque, and he struggles for a moment to push them away but they're achingly heavy and he hasn't the strength.

When he opens his eyes he sees Therrin (again, and how many times had the demon taken her form to offer him everything? Lies, all of it.) and she's staring at something with her hand over her mouth.

Cullen shakes himself a little, and looks.

There are dead templars on the ground, a half-dozen—or what's left of them. Templar armor is durable but the men inside it are only flesh and these men are...

Not whole.

He doesn't know why but he shudders, hard, his mind trying to pick out the pieces of what used to be his brethren (torn apart, ripped to pieces, the abominations were impossibly strong and fast and it's quiet for now but they'll be back).

The demon wearing Therrin's skin is silent, looking down at the fallen templars (admiring her handiwork) and he can feel the hum of magic inside her, deep and unholy and maybe—maybe if the demon took the body of a mage, maybe...

But no, he's been in this cage for days, he has nothing left, but his sword is heavy on his back and he doesn't know when he got it back but it's a chance, one last, desperate hope.

He can kill the demon, the abomination (there's wind on his face and something whines in the depths of his brain that this is wrong but it drowns in the sea of his memories, the memories of his brothers and of how they had broken, one by one by one and he's all that's left). And it doesn't even look up, doesn't even suspect, and maybe it thought Cullen had already broken but he will not break, not now, not ever. He sways in place, watching the demon-Therrin-abomination (she isn't here, she died with the rest at Ostagar, the Grey Warden took her and he will never see her again).

_Like this_, Greagoir's voice echoes in his ears, and he prays Greagoir has escaped this horror because he doesn't know what he's going to do if the Knight-Commander is dead—but he gathers up his will just as he was trained and sends it out, and the mage _(demon)_ falls with a muffled cry as its magic is stripped away all at once.

Cullen had thought it would be harder to fell a demon. But he's got a chance now, his sword's here, on his back, and he pulls it free because he can't afford to hesitate—he had hesitated before and the demon that looked like Therrin had trapped him in a cage and tore its way into his brain—and as the mage-thing crawls away, gasping for breath and making little sounds of alarm he raises his sword (and the angle's wrong but this could be his only chance) and there's shouting, a cacophony of noise and the clanking of metal, and there's a woman crying his name and the ring of swords being drawn all around him, and then the blond man, the... Warden? is in front of him, and furious. He's got the air of a templar about him but when Cullen opens his mouth to demand his aid against the demon there's the abrupt _crack_ of a fist in his face and in an instant the world goes dark.


	30. The Broken Door

In the quiet room in Dane's Refuge Teagan's breathing sounds loud, the cadence uneven. Every time the pause between breaths begins to stretch Therrin tries to rein in the panic that cuts through her exhaustion, her fingers seeking the thready pulse at his wrist and throat.

Not that she knows what she'd do if he did stop breathing. The beginnings of mana are drifting back but Therrin doesn't know what spell, if any, would save him. In the absence of anything else she digs through her pack of medicines and ingredients, hoping in vain that something will look even vaguely helpful.

Nothing does.

But she's the closest thing to a healer around so she goes through the motions, even though they seem empty: pulling the salvaged blanket up around him and flicking back the lock of hair that keeps drifting into his eyes, wringing out a little cloth in a bowl of water and wondering if a cool compress would actually help any. It rather seems like winding a bandage onto a severed leg.

With the slow return of mana come whispers, presences. They skulk like wolves just barely out of sight, darting away before she can single out any one of them but she can feel them circling all the same, biding their time and waiting for an opening. _Go away_, she snarls in her mind, trying to focus her will into something strong enough to push back with. The attempt falters. She gets the brief impression of scattering, a momentary surprise before her mental focus wavers and the indistinct prowling resumes.

There's a click at the door and in the quiet it makes her jump, but it's only Stephen, peering around the corner looking worried. "Hi, sweetheart," Therrin says, and he takes it as invitation to slip in and push the door closed behind him.

"Is he dying?" he asks, climbing into her lap. His knees are bony and he somehow manages to elbow her in the ribs as he clambers up but she doesn't complain. She shifts to accommodate him on her leg, balancing with one hand and keeping her fingers at Teagan's pulse with the other.

Therrin begins to say _maybe_ but reconsiders before the word can make it past her lips, watching the boy on her lap and half-sick with uncertainty. "I don't know," she answers at last, carefully. "I don't think so."

Not right this moment, anyway.

Stephen wriggles closer, clutching at the sleeve of her robe and never taking his eyes from Teagan. "He said I could have a bow," he mumbles long moments later, nearly inaudible even in the quiet of the room. His back rises and falls under her hand, a hitch in his breath like he might cry. "I really did want to go live with him."

"Me too." She pats his shoulder in what she hopes is a soothing manner. "He's a good man. We'll take care of him." Stephen doesn't answer, and in the quiet that follows she realizes that this is the first time they've really been alone since they left the Tower. Dog's reprimand itches at her memory, restless and uncomfortable. "If you want," she continues, "I know you miss your friends, and Dog said you weren't really happy out here…"

Stephen looks up, expectant.

"If you want to go back to the Tower, it's fine," she finishes. "I understand. I miss it, too."

He goes still, except for his face, which crumples in disappointment. "I want to stay with _you_." His arm winds tighter around her neck and for a moment there's a frisson of disharmony, a rattling against her willpower as the lurking sensation on the edge of her senses intensifies.

_Go away._

"I was thinking," she says, vaguely guilty because she hadn't been thinking it at all until just then, there had been too much happening, "You know Wynne said that you were mine, as a… as a ward, and as an apprentice. But she didn't say it had to stay that way."

Stephen waits, patient for once, and for a moment all Therrin wants to do is retreat. She's done battle against the darkspawn and faced the Hero of the River Dane in single combat and stuck a sword through the skull of an archdemon, but somehow this is just as frightening. "If you want," she makes herself say, "I could adopt you. Or. I don't even know that I'd have to, since everything's legal. But we could…" Stephen's fingers clench tighter in her robe and she doesn't know if he even knows he's doing it. His eyes seem very large and dark and hopeful in a way that yanks at her heart and terrifies her at the same time. "We could be a family," she finishes. "We don't need anyone else to give permission."

_I think_, she amends mentally.. But if they couldn't do it with Teagan at Rainesfere they can do it themselves in Amaranthine. And so maybe this wasn't quite what she'd ever dreamed about when she was pining for normality and family, but it's something. The look on Stephen's face makes something turn over in her mind that maybe it's something right_._

Stephen shifts on her lap. "We'd be a family? Just us?"

Therrin nods. "Just us."

On the bed, Teagan seems to shudder a moment, but it isn't another convulsion and his pulse is steady under her fingertips, slow but even.

Stephen rests his head on Therrin's shoulder, considering. "Does that make me…" He stops, uncertain, before it all comes out in a rush. "I mean, _you_ have two names, but Leliana doesn't and Cullen doesn't but Teagan does and if you have a family name…"

Therrin's too tired for real amusement but the ghost of something like it makes her smile a little. "Amell? You could have my name, if you wanted. Stephen Amell," she murmurs, brushing his curls through her fingers and noting idly that he needs a haircut.

"I do want it," he says, adamant against her shoulder.

She almost says _well, all right then_, and considers it finished, but the shiver of being watched presses in harder, the lurking feeling sliding over and the edges going keen at the bright newness of Stephen. Something in her growls in response. The energy of the invisible standoff is wearing, eroding her defenses and patience, but she makes herself nod. "That settles it, then," she says with forced lightness, and the answering grin that splits his face seems bright enough to banish every shadow in the room.

But there are still dangers prowling, waiting. "Do me a favor," she says, and he's already nodding. "Go see if anyone's started supper, would you? I'm so hungry I could eat a… a bear."

Stephen grins again, giving a tight, fleeting hug before he races off downstairs, and as she lets her head sink into her hands Therrin catches a glimpse of Dog, standing guard at the door and nosing in with his ears pricked forward.

"You'd be proud, Dog. I adopted Stephen," she announces into her palms, the shock of the cold nose snuffling at her ear cutting through the tired fog of her brain.

You are hurt, Dog whines softly.

Therrin drags her hands through her hair. "I'll be fine. A little mana, a little rest, a few less darkspawn, everything will be as good as new." But Dog doesn't fall for the attempt at a joke, and under his worried regard Therrin's shoulders slump. "I really can't think about it yet."

Not that it matters. The barest thought of Cullen brings with it a churning flood of distress that makes her feel dizzy and sick, and she drops her head to her hands again as the slither-hiss of the Fade-shadows seems to creep closer. _Go away_, she growls again, _go away and leave me alone_, but it makes no difference at all.

Dog whines again and presses closer, the fur of his chest against her knees. You are a good human.

Therrin's laugh is thick. "I think you're biased, Dog."

He only snuffles at her ear again, stretching up to lean his chin on her shoulder, and in the quiet of the room Therrin puts her arms around Dog's neck and curls her fingers in his fur, holding onto him as though it could make all the darkness go away, and with all the patience of his breed Dog sits perfectly still and lets her.

-oOo-

Cullen wakes to a red haze of pain and a sick sensation like drowning that throbs in time with his heart. The world is a blur, uselessly fuzzy, and it takes him a moment to realize that his eyes are watering so much that he can't see. Not that he can think about it much; he can hardly think at all over the feeling of half-suffocating. The nerves in his face pound an uproar of pain so vicious it blocks out almost everything else.

Almost.

As he blinks the tears from his eyes and struggles to sit, other sensations filter into his awareness. His armor is gone, he's on a bed and he doesn't know where, there are bands of something around his wrists and he can't move.

The realization brings with it a muted jolt of panic. Cullen doesn't know why he's restrained or who's done it, and it's not reassuring at all when a quiet sound of amusement penetrates the throbbing in his head. "I would not thrash around, if I were you," Zevran says idly from somewhere nearby. "Of course, I would never be so foolish as to take a punch in the face from a man wearing dragonbone gauntlets, so perhaps you should thrash as you please. Certainly we cannot expect to be of the same mind."

Cullen tries to lick his cracked lips to wet them but the motion brings with it new explosions of pain in his cheeks and jaw, and the sound that slips from his mouth sounds faraway and thick. "What… what happened?"

The blur of his vision sharpens a fraction and he can make out the vague shape of Zevran some feet away, moving. "You don't recall? The king took offense to your trying to kill Therrin, and decided to stop you with his fist." There's a note of distaste in the heavily-accented voice. "I suppose you are lucky. Had Oghren got to you first, you would be dead of axe-wounds, waist-high."

There's a quick rap at the door and he expects someone to come in. It takes a moment to realize it was Zevran doing the knocking but the words are swimming in his ears and don't make sense at all. "Tried to…" Maker, his face is in agony. "To _what?"_

He can't have heard right, it doesn't make sense. With breath coming short and sharp in his open mouth, he begins to protest that there must be some mistake, or maybe he's still asleep and this is a dream, but the pain in his face is all too real and the beginnings of memory are curling back, nightmarishly cold. The piercing glare of the sun in his eyes as he'd sleepwalked down the road, dead templars in pieces in the dust, his sword in his hands and the demon—

Therrin.

Oh, _Maker_. His head throbs harder and his automatic grimace only intensifies the pain in his face. "She's… is she…"

"She's tending to… what's his name? The pretty man, I can't recall."

Cullen raises his eyebrows and he immediately regrets it. "The… Teagan?"

"Ah, yes, him."

A terrible apprehension knots in his chest and even the slightest movement sends new waves of pain shooting through his head but he struggles on anyway. "She's not…" _Hurt_, he wants to ask, dreading the answer. "My sword…"

Zevran's laugh is humorless. "You won't be getting that back."

_That's not what I meant_, he thinks with an edge of desperation, but before he can say anything the door swings open, the king strides in and Cullen's vision clears enough to register that Alistair is very, _very_ angry.

Cullen tries to sit up as much as he can but it's a vain effort and only makes his head hurt worse. "Your—"

"Don't," Alistair bites out grimly. "Not a word. There's nothing you could say to make this remotely better so just shut up."

"Alistair," Leliana chides quietly, slipping through the door, "he… oh, his face!" And then she's at his bedside, worried and fretting over his bindings. "Is this really necessary?"

"Yes." Alistair glances at Zevran, a dark expression. "Get the door."

Zevran doesn't look impressed and doesn't move, and with a scowl Alistair shoves it closed himself. "I'm going to say this once, and it isn't going to leave this room," he begins, murderously tense. "I don't care _what_ the circumstances are; if you draw steel against Therrin again I will cut you down. Do I make myself clear?"

With guilt clawing out from inside his ribs and the king looming over him, Cullen nods. Not that he can promise it'll never come to it, and even with a heart full of guilt he knows that if she did turn, if she did become an… an abomination, he would be forced to try.

Being cut down afterwards seems unimportant in comparison.

"He needs healing," Leliana insists, reaching out to touch his face and at the last second thinking better of it. "His nose is…"

"Destroyed," Zevran cuts in, sounding more amused than anything. "And purple looks terrible with his hair. Really, Alistair, did you have to hit him quite so hard? I thought you more squeamish about such things."

Alistair merely looks disgusted. "Set his nose and—"

"No," Leliana says, adamant. "He needs more than a poultice, you know it. I'm getting Amell."

"You do remember he just tried to kill her?" Alistair argues. "Or am I the only one who remembers that?"

"Then it's her choice," Leliana retorts, heading for the door.

As soon as she's gone Alistair rubs his forehead with a hand as though it pains him. "Women, I swear." Long moments pass in silence before he looks up; when he does, his glance at Cullen is hard. "If you so much as attempt to use any of your templar talents I will know. And if you do—"

"I won't," Cullen interrupts thickly, sitting up as far as his bindings allow and trying to shift to ease the ache in his back, ignoring the feeling of blood pooling in his face. "I don't… I don't know that I can control this, not always. You have to protect her. And Stephen, too, he shouldn't—"

"You don't get to ask for anything." Alistair's eyes are narrowed and dangerous. "I don't care why you did it or what you were thinking, it doesn't matter."

Zevran makes a little noise of dissent, considering the edge of one of his daggers. "Because surely just growling at him will solve all our problems."

Alistair shoots him a disgusted look. "You have no idea what's going on."

Zevran shrugs, unconcerned. "If he is that dangerous, kill him. If he is not, threatening him does nothing. He will try again, or he won't. He is Therrin's, yes? Is there a reason you're doing this while she's gone?"

"I—"

"Doing what while I'm gone?" Therrin interrupts from the doorway, Dog at her side. Cullen's stomach seems to flip at the sight of her, deeply uncomfortable and sick with guilt. "What's he done… oh," she says faintly, her expression falling at the sight of him. "Cullen."

"You shouldn't be here," Alistair begins, stepping to block her way to the bed.

"I shouldn't be elsewhere. Leliana's with Teagan." She frowns in return. "There's nothing else I can do for him, and Cullen's hurt. And unarmed," she points out.

"He doesn't need a sword to kill you," Alistair argues flatly. "You know that."

Therrin crosses her arms in a posture identical to Alistair's, not backing down. "Yes. I do. Excuse me."

"Therrin—"

"I have been almost killed by templars before," she points out. "You were there, as I recall. I know what I'm doing." For a moment, he doesn't move. "Alistair," she says at last, looking very tired. "Don't. Please."

The standoff between them doesn't change for a moment, and then finally something small seems to give in the king's expression. "I'm not leaving."

"I didn't expect you to." Therrin edges over to Cullen as Alistair turns to let her pass, Dog at her side. "You tied him down?"

"We took precautions," he corrects, visibly wincing as she settles onto the edge of the bed. The dip of the mattress makes the muscles in his shoulders protest but Cullen's just glad to see that she's whole, that she's still here and alive and not recoiling in fear at the sight of him. "_Necessary_ precautions," Alistair adds as her hands find his bindings and begin working at the knots.

"Keeping him tied this way isn't going to help," Therrin argues. "The angles are wrong; he's going to lose all circulation in his arms."

"That's what _I_ said!" Zevran chimes in, as though she'd confirmed his half of a previous argument. "But does anyone listen to Zevran? No. It's all 'Zevran, go here, and Zevran, stab this monster, and Zevran, stand there and look ridiculously handsome.' But when I give advice to the guards, they do nothing." He sighs. "He is only one man, after all. And not nearly so fast as I am. I could have him crying for his mother before he made it all the way out of bed."

Therrin smiles, an empty and automatic expression. This close Cullen can see the trembling of her hands and the greyish cast to her skin. He can feel the emptiness of her, the little mana she's regained settling like the dregs of wine in the bottom of a cup, the aching hollowness of the rest. She frees one of his wrists and it tingles painfully as blood starts pouring back in, but she leans across him to get the other side and if he brings the first arm down it'll mean touching her.

The king's expression is a pretty clear sign that that would be a bad idea.

Cullen holds himself carefully away until she works the other arm free and leans back, and only then does he sit, rubbing circulation back into his hands and trying his best to look as unthreatening as possible as she scrutinizes his face. "I'm sorry," he begins around the tightening of his throat, painfully aware of their audience but the press of words needing said too strong to ignore. "There's no excuse for what I did, at all. I…"

"Cullen." One of her hands finds his on the blanket, her fingers curling around his briefly. He holds on while it lasts, heart sinking. He isn't foolish enough to think that everything's all better, isn't blind enough not to see the rigidity of her posture as though it's an effort to hold herself here.

Not now, he thinks. Later, when they're alone, he'll tell her everything. If there is a later.

"Are you going to get on with it?" Alistair asks, looking uncomfortable.

Therrin glances at him over her shoulder, pulling her hands to her lap. "Yes. Trying to see what needs repaired. The less I have to feel it out with magic, the better."

_Because I don't have much mana to work with, because Cullen took it when he thought I was a demon and tried to kill me_, Cullen finishes in his head. But she doesn't say that. She only begins a spell that feels wrung out from the very beginning, worn thin and tired, and he's about to protest _don't, someone can set it and it'll be fine_ but the magic reaches into him before he can speak and he deliberately shuts down all of his mental defenses to ease the way.

Everything in his training shouts that it's a fatally bad move and he ignores it, and it's only a moment before the pain begins to ease, things starting to shift, which isn't entirely comfortable and then there's a _crack_ inside his face and a rush of blood and pain and it's worse but it's better somehow too, because he can breathe.

It still hurts but the awful smashed feeling has eased and he touches the bridge of his nose, gingerly, his senses uncomfortably aware of Therrin beside him and the last of her mana guttering like a dying candle. "You're dangerously close to being overextended," he murmurs.

She leans away a bit, straightening. "I'm done, believe me." Her tone's casual enough but there's an undercurrent of weariness that troubles him, and something in the distractedness of her eyes—as though she's only half-here and listening to something else—makes him worry.

"Good. You should get back to Teagan," Alistair says, arms still crossed. "You should be there if anything happens."

For a moment Cullen expects an argument, but it doesn't come. Therrin nods as though her head is too heavy and pushes to her feet, giving him a last, inscrutable look before she heads for the door with Dog at her heels.

Alistair shuts it behind them. "I want him tied back up."

Zevran grins. "And I want an endless supply of Antivan wine brought me by nubile, large-breasted women who are allergic to clothes." At Alistair's expression, he shrugs. "This isn't just our wishes? Oh. Disappointing."

Cullen doesn't relish the idea of being tied again but there's no way to know for certain that it won't happen again, that he won't lose himself and find Therrin and… he cringes at the thought. "It's probably better that I'm restrained. For safety."

"Done," Alistair answers grimly.

Zevran sighs. "No." At the king's look his expression goes faintly mocking. "If Therrin wanted him tied she'd have tied him herself. And maybe she would let us watch."

Alistair isn't amused.

"He is just one man," Zevran says again. "And keeping him tied is a bother. Are you going to help him go take a piss? Give him sponge baths? This I would like to see."

"This isn't a laughing matter," Alistair grits out, irritated.

The easy amusement falls from Zevran's expression, leaving something sharp and unpleasant behind. "No. It isn't. And we outnumber him ten to one, not counting Therrin or the child. Put a guard on the door if you like; let Oghren sit on him if you must. But you do not get to be petty and call it justice."

The air in the room goes thick with tension and Cullen has the sense that it's headed downhill fast. "Your Majesty," he interjects into the moment of silence. "Therrin's volatile. She needs…" _She needs watching, she needs guarded while she's vulnerable…_ "She needs a templar," he finishes.

"She has one," Alistair counters immediately, his expression forbidding as he heads for the door. "It isn't you."

The guards follow him out, the door closing behind him sounding heavy as judgment.

-oOo-

Dog is worried. His human is almost too tired to eat, and her hands are trembling so she almost gives up, but he prods at her with his nose until she finishes and she nearly falls asleep at the table anyway.

Not that Dog would mind an extra half-bowl of salt-meat, but his human comes first.

For so many people crammed in together, they are quiet. Except for Stephen, who is too tired and too happy and too worried all at once, and Dog is happy that Stephen is happy but Stephen is also afraid at the same time because everyone is mad-at-Cullen and so Dog isn't surprised when a cooking-pot of porridge explodes.

Everyone else is surprised, and then things are not-quiet as all the adult people startle and as Stephen apologizes and hides under a table.

It is a very poor hiding place; Dog can see him. After a while, Stephen scoots on his bottom from the table and hides under Therrin's chair, which is still not a good hiding place but which makes Therrin lean down and rub the top of his head.

Stephen is not so sad after that.

But after supper is over (and Oghren makes sure he gets an extra bowl of food and Dog wags his tail very hard in thanks) Therrin heads upstairs and Dog follows, and Teagan is still not-awake which makes Therrin sad. Leliana is sad too and they sit together for a while, and Dog flops on the ground by their feet as they talk and push their toes beneath him for warmth.

Leliana talks a lot, but she doesn't want to leave Teagan. After a while Therrin leaves them alone and he follows her back out into the hall, pressing close to her side so she doesn't fall.

The king is waiting for them. And Dog still has not forgiven him but Therrin isn't angry so Dog only sits and ignores him. "How's Teagan?"

Therrin shrugs. "About the same. The convulsions seem to have stopped, but I still can't get him to wake up."

Alistair nods like he expected as much. "Were you thinking of turning in before long?"

"As soon as possible." Therrin sounds a little relieved and leans on Dog for balance, and he braces his paws on the floor to compensate. "I'm pretty sure I've had better days."

"Right." He looks unhappy and smells nervous and it makes Dog suspicious. "About that." When Therrin only looks at him expectantly, Alistair heaves a deep breath. "I don't think you should go to bed alone tonight."

Then Therrin smells nervous.

"Given the circumstances," Alistair plows on, frowning at the floor. "I mean, Cullen is being… watched, and all, but for your sake. You know. Best not to be alone."

Therrin is still gaping a tiny bit and her fingers curl into the fur on Dog's neck. "Alistair…"

Alistair looks up, waiting.

"Please tell me you're not suggesting what… I think you're suggesting," Therrin manages, sounding a little like she might laugh or cry.

"What I… _oh!_ Oh. No, no, no. Um." For a second Dog thinks Alistair looks just like he used to when he would trail after Therrin, blushing and bright-eyed and making her happy. Therrin rubs at her eyes, looking a little pained. "I just meant," Alistair goes on, sounding a little strangled, "that, you know. If you were volatile you might need… watching."

Therrin's quiet for a moment. "I see."

"It's not—"

"Thank you," Therrin interrupts, and Alistair shuts up immediately. "It's a good idea. I appreciate it."

And she isn't in bed alone because the king has his guards drag a cot into Teagan's room so she can be there, and even though it's crowded Stephen and Leliana curl up beside her. The king slumps into a nearby chair looking tired and sad and Dog curls up on a spare blanket in the little patch of floor that's left and sighs as everyone goes to sleep.

In the morning, things are better.

Dog can feel it immediately as his human rouses and gives a long stretch. She is sleepy but not empty and not overwhelmed and it makes him relieved because she had been so sad before. She smiles at him drowsily from over Stephen's hair and flops a hand out to rub his ears. "Hey, boy."

Hi, Dog says, eyes closed with pleasure as she find that… yes, _that_ spot that always itches and he can never reach, but almost immediately she stops, frowning. "Where's Leliana?"

Alistair jerks awake. "I'm up." He yawns and stretches, twisting his back.

But Therrin is still frowning, concerned and rubbing grit out of her eyes. "Dog, when did she leave?"

I don't know, Dog whines, and he jumps to his feet because Leliana is quiet and sneaky but she never tries to sneak past him and she always takes him with her if she's the first one up for breakfast and walks.

Something is wrong.

"She might've just…" Alistair frowns. "Gone for a bite to eat, or something."

"She'd have taken Dog," Therrin counters, easing Stephen off of her and sliding off the cot, and Dog follows as she heads for the door and she smells worried, sharp and unhappy.

Alistair is right behind her and they head down the hall. Leliana is not in any of the little rooms or the big room downstairs or the kitchen or anywhere.

"Where d'you…?" But Alistair doesn't finish the question and he and Therrin just look at each other for a second before they take off for the door. The morning is cold and foggy but Dog bounds after them as they sprint through the town in the direction of the ruined Chantry.

The smell of sickness and dark things hits him like a wall, blight and death and bodies overwintered and beginning to thaw and Dog tries to rub the stench out of his nose but it's no use. It rolls out of the chantry thick enough to make him choke and whine.

Alistair mutters an oath under his breath as they come to a stop in front of it, both of them looking sick.

"The doors." Therrin points uselessly; Alistair's already looking. "It looks like they were broken in." She swallows thickly, looking queasy. She can't smell as well as Dog but he thinks she can sense it anyway, the wrong feeling of the place that makes the hair on his back rise and makes him want to run away. "She's in there, isn't she?"

Yes, Dog whines, uncomfortable.

Therrin shares a look with Alistair. Dog knows that look; it means _yes, we're really going in there_.

As the guards finally catch up behind them, breathless and disgruntled, Therrin pushes open what's left of the door and they head inside, following Leliana and steeling themselves for the worst.


	31. The Blinded Sentinel

Death has a hundred scents; Zevran knows them all. But this scent—the smell of clinging sickness, the peculiar odor of blight-death the darkspawn leave behind—he had not expected to smell again.

Bad enough when the stench had seeped into the leather of his armor, soaked into his scabbards and lingered around them all in a haze that never seemed to clear. In the ruined chantry it seeps from the walls and seems to hang in the air as surely as the incomplete skeletons above his head, the odor thick and acrid in the foggy morning.

Zevran steps lightly over the remains of what once had been people, picking his way carefully across the bloodstained stone of the floor and following the muffled sounds of grief.

There are a hundred sounds the mourning make; Zevran knows them, too. He knows the sound of Leliana's weeping better than most, and so isn't surprised when he turns the corner to find them all in a huddle on the floor.

"An odd place for a picnic, Warden," Zevran says. It never stops being satisfying, watching Alistair startle so, but Therrin doesn't seem surprised, glancing over Leliana's shoulder. A heap of something that had used to be a Chantry robe is at his feet, half-over the side of his boot. He toes it away. "Your rabid templar is shouting for you," he informs her mildly, watching Leliana wipe at her face with the edge of her sleeve. "Or was, rather. He is waiting for your return."

She nods understanding, turning back into Leliana.

Alistair looks indignant, and Zevran knows that look, too. It that means that someone will end up an outlet for that anger, and most likely him. "Can't you show any respect, for once?" Alistair demands. He gestures at the meager remains of the dead, a vague and heartsick unhappiness in his expression.

"I do not think these people care anymore," Zevran says. From the looks of things, they haven't for some time. Alistair starts to protest—and Zevran knows this dance well, this unsubtle back-and-forth jabbing that had been so entertaining on the road—but Therrin interrupts. "Not helping."

Dog growls assent.

"Come on," Therrin says, gentle and pulling Leliana up as they stand. "Let's get back in."

Zevran thinks Leliana has never been so quiet. She says not a word as they walk through the abandoned village; she doesn't respond when they push the door open at the inn. When Therrin shepherds her into a bed she still doesn't speak, not when Dog leaps up beside her and whines, not when she finally disentangles her fingers from Therrin's and curls against the mabari, shaking with silent tears.

Back downstairs, Therrin slumps into the chair next to Zevran, closing her eyes and cursing under her breath.

"You need a better repertoire of curses, my dear," he admonishes. "You're beginning to repeat yourself."

She waves a hand tiredly, eyes still closed. "It could have been worse, I suppose. More of them could have been recognizable."

Oghren settles at Therrin's other side with a grunt. "That bad?"

"It was pretty bad," she admits. "She lived with those people for two years, you know, it's…"

There's a noise from upstairs and for a moment Zevran thinks the templar's gone agitated again, but the noise doesn't continue and there isn't any shouting.

Yet.

"Your templar is expecting you," Zevran reminds her mildly.

Therrin only shrinks into the chair, looking weary. "I know. I'll head up there in a second."

"You're not going in there alone," Alistair protests, the beginnings of anger in his voice. "Please tell me you remember that he tried to kill you."

"Believe it or not, I do remember," she retorts, too drained for a real argument. "It's not exactly the sort of thing that just slips your mind. But I do need to check up on him, and he is unarmed."

"He doesn't need a sword to kill you; we've been _over_ this," Alistair argues. "Even if he can't focus enough for templar talents, he's not helpless. He could snap your neck before you could blink."

"He wouldn't," Zevran offers, shrugging offhandedly at Therrin's quizzical look. "That one? He would strangle you, I think." Death happens to be a lifelong specialty; Zevran has seen men in vicious rages before. They never go for the quick, clean kill.

Therrin mulls it over, passionless and matter-of-fact as though considering an equation. "Probably."

"Tell me we aren't having this conversation," Alistair demands, horrified. "If you think for a moment—"

"Alistair," Therrin interrupts, earning her pointed looks from a few of the guards. "Enough. We've got bigger problems than Cullen." When he doesn't answer, she presses, "The darkspawn? Doesn't this seem odd to you? I didn't think they would linger like this; shouldn't they have fled underground by now?"

"I… yes," he admits, only reluctantly following the change of subject. "I would have thought so. That they aren't means…"

"There's something keeping them here," Therrin finishes when Alistair leaves it hanging. "I've felt it a couple of times, something strong."

Alistair looks tired. "So have I."

Oghren scowls. "How strong are we talking?"

"Strong enough to keep them organized," he admits. "Not Archdemon strong, but strong enough to be a problem."

"We'll need to find it," she says. "Whatever has them organized, we have to find it and kill it. Otherwise more people are going to try to come home to Lothering, now that spring's coming. They'll be walking right into the darkspawn."

Alistair nods. "I agree."

"Good." Therrin grimaces.

When the silence stretches out and Therrin still makes no sign of heading upstairs, Zevran coughs delicately. "I want to try something, if I may. With your sleeping bann."

Oghren rumbles a sardonic laugh. "You gonna kiss him and see if he wakes up? I heard a story like that once. Only I think it was a prince, so Alistair's got to do it."

"I'm not kissing Teagan," Alistair protests.

"Unfortunately, I wasn't going to suggest kissing," Zevran continues, stroking his chin in a show of contemplation. "Though now that you've brought it up, the prospect has a certain appeal…"

Alistair's look of alarm is a thing of beauty.

"What did you have in mind?" Therrin asks, propping her elbow on the table and looking the littlest bit amused.

Perhaps now is not the time for laughter, Zevran admits, but a little whistling in the dark never hurt anyone. Metaphorically, at least. "The convulsions he had… I don't believe they were an expected effect," he explains, stretching idly. "It makes me think the poison may not have taken quite as well as it was supposed to—that, or he reacted poorly to one of the poison's components. In any case, I know of a countermeasure that might be promising. Normally it would be useless against a poison that potent, but if it didn't take properly, it might be worth trying."

He can see Therrin think it over. "How dangerous is this countermeasure?"

Zevran shrugs. "Nearly harmless. The biggest danger is that it won't work. Which will be terribly disappointing; I might cry. You would have to hold me, preferably to your bosom, and stroke my hair and tell me how handsome I am."

Not that she would, necessarily, but there's always the off chance that she might, and in any case the little spark of amusement seems to be bracing. Therrin looks less defeated than before as she considers it. "It's Alistair's call," she says finally. At his expression, she continues, "you're the closest thing he's got to next of kin and he only said nearly harmless. It's your decision."

Alistair hesitates. "Fine," he says after a moment. "If you're sure it's not… dangerous."

"No more dangerous than dying by degrees," Zevran answers, not terribly concerned. It will work, or it won't.

"Do it, then," Alistair says at last, and Therrin nods assent.

"And I shall." Zevran agrees, with a significant look in the direction of the upper level. "But first…"

"Cullen," Therrin finishes, her glance up the stairs uncertain. "Fine. Let's go." Alistair begins to push to his feet and she shakes her head. "I'll be all right, Alistair."

Alistair frowns, stubborn, and that's just what will make everything better, thinks Zevran, an ex-lover's spat. "Yes, you will be. I'm going with you."

"You'll make him nervous," she argues, crossing her arms. "Which makes _me_ nervous."

"Oh, come now," Zevran interjects. "Admit it, you are just afraid they'll get talking. Maybe they'll compare notes. Maybe Alistair could give your new paramour some advice." Therrin is not amused. "Yes, you're right, that would be a terrible idea," Zevran accedes. "Alistair can't be relied upon to know these things. Nonetheless, I will go along. These blades aren't for looks, you know."

Oghren snorts.

"That works," Therrin says after a moment.

"I'll go," Oghren offers, and Zevran can't help a flash of irritation at Alistair's relief.

Petty, petty man.

But Therrin looks relieved, too, and so Zevran cannot begrudge her the extra backup. "The two of us should be more than enough to protect her, of course," Zevran cuts in smoothly as they stand. "Never fear, Alistair. She still has someone loyal at her back."

Alistair's expression is priceless, and he can feel the weight of being watched as they head for the stairs. For the moment, Zevran doesn't care. You take your victories where you can find them, sometimes, no matter how small.

-oOo-

For Cullen, nothing is familiar.

The sense of foreignness swirls and slides along the edges of his mind, the world tilting unsteadily back and forth and nothing as it should be, nothing _where_ it should be. He doesn't know this room, that table, these clothes (where is his armor and where is he?) he'll be in such trouble if he isn't at his post by…

By…

He can't remember.

He's been sitting very quietly on the edge of this bed (a bed he doesn't know in a room he doesn't know, and the view out the window is unfamiliar) but though he tries very hard to sort it all out it won't make sense, no matter how fervently he tries to piece it all together.

He rubs his hands together, palm against palm, nervous and shaky and agonizingly confused. When he swallows his throat hurts as though he's been shouting but he hasn't been shouting he's just been sitting here, waiting, patient and hoping for something… Wasn't someone supposed to come?

There's a tugging sensation above his nose, behind his eyes, the bizarre sensation of pain and pulling. Something is tugging and his brain is unraveling like a knitted blanket, falling in one long string into a useless pile of crinkled memories.

He holds his head in both hands as though he could keep it all in.

And then the door clicks open and maybe this is what he's been waiting for (he isn't sure, he can't recall)—

And Therrin is there.

He's across the room immediately and she's in his arms, rigid and stiff and the… the blond elf (Cullen cannot remember his name, for the life of him) has a long dagger at the ready and the general (Oghren, playing cards alone in a frock… no, that's not right). He looks angry but the elf's holding him by the shoulder and Therrin is here and it doesn't matter. "It's you," he breathes desperately against her hair, grateful beyond measure because she's here and familiar and everything else is so strange but he knows her.

He would know her anywhere; he thinks that he would know her if he didn't have eyes to see with.

She relaxes a little. "Oh, Cullen."

"You were gone," he accuses, and doesn't let go and she's edging away and nervous and he doesn't want her to go. "You left."

She had, hadn't she? (Yes, he's sure of it; she'd helped a blood mage escape and he remembers her words later, bitter and quiet: _an entire army of templars and a whole Circle of mages and somehow the burden of discovering that Jowan was a maleficar was entirely on me?_)

It hadn't mattered; she'd left. (Been taken.)

(It doesn't matter.)

"I came back," Therrin tells him, and it must be true because she's here, now, and he follows like a lamb when she takes his arm and leads him back toward the bed.

"Why?" Cullen demands, despairing. "There's nothing left here." Uldred had seen to it; the demons had broken so many.

Therrin hesitates as they sit. "There's you," she points out, gently. "And me."

He breathes heavily, panic beating like bird-wings at his ribs. "I don't know…"

Her hand is in his and his fingers are curling into hers like they know how, like they've done this before—but that's impossible, they've never been this close, they're going to be caught and punished.

(No.)

The images tumble through his thoughts too quickly to grasp, chaotic and broken and unweighted: flickers of years in an instant, of carrying her books (like an idiot) because it had been an excuse to talk to her, just for a minute, watching all that night she'd returned (don't do anything wrong; I will kill you), her hands on his back and her body beneath him as he'd…

No.

(Yes.)

"Trust me," Therrin insists, and he does, he _does_, because there isn't anything else left that makes sense at all.

"I don't know," he begins again and stops, shuddering hard. "I can't…" Cullen shakes his head, carefully, wishing the ache in his bones would go away.

She holds one of his hands in both of hers, sitting very close.

(He had wanted this, when he'd first come to the Tower; he had still been nearly a boy and had spun out daydreams in his head of winning her over with witty things he could never say and charm he would never possess and then she would sit here like this and then…)

(He hadn't entertained _and thens_ yet; when he did, a demon had turned them against him.)

_Maker give me strength._

But this isn't the demon, this is Therrin and this close he can tell.

(He hopes he can tell. Demons are clever, or so he's been told. He hopes he never sees one.)

"Did you take your lyrium?" Therrin asks, and she looks so worried.

Cullen frowns. "Lyrium? No. It isn't here; this isn't my room. I don't know where we are."

She looks disappointed and he doesn't know why. "We're in Lothering," she says, and then she's getting up and he doesn't want her to go. She'll fade into nothing and all that's left will be the room he doesn't know and the… the elf. Wasn't he here before?

Or the dwarf. (Shame, considering your thing for redheads.)

Pain slides through his head like the cold edges of blades, but Therrin's at the chest of drawers by the window, rummaging around and frowning.

The _window_.

And the king is getting married and here's Therrin at the window and the lake is so very far below them, and Dog is (not here) right there but it's not enough. "Therrin," he manages, faint and hoarse and half-heartbroken. "Don't."

She glances up, expression going careful. "Don't what?"

The lake eats mages, he wants to say, and I know that… that you weren't well when you came back but there's… but no, there's no time to explain. It's easier just to get up, to stop her himself and pull her away from the window and she's confused but not resisting. "What is it?"

"The window." And she looks completely confused but doesn't say anything, so he clarifies, "you'll fall. And it's a long way down, and then a rough swim back to shore."

_Just a fall for me; I don't swim_ pings at his memory, the feeling blurry in his brain that he's heard this before which is impossible.

There's a reason the windows only open in the Harrowing chamber.

(But no, Therrin had opened a window in the… the library. And the Tower had breathed and the mages had laughed at the breeze and the bird and she'd swayed back and he'd caught her.)

He doesn't know what he'll do when she marries Teagan; Maker forgive him but he wishes she'd stay.

But: "Cullen," she says again, extricating herself carefully. "Please, sit."

He does. "The window—"

"I'll be careful," she assures him. "Look, it isn't even open."

He looks and sure enough it's closed, and the wrong shape and size, and then the little box of lyrium is in her hands and she's reading over papers, frowning. Cullen cranes his neck to look in the box because it seems small.

There isn't much. He'll have to get more when his watch is over; there might be enough for tonight but not tomorrow morning, and if he waits until then he'll have a headache.

(No, this isn't the Tower, this is… is Lothering and the red dust in that box is all the lyrium he will ever have for the rest of his life.)

Oh, Maker.

Snatches of memory prod at his brain, hard, and he watches helplessly as Therrin measures out the dust, the dim light of outside making everything seem dreamy and faded, but the motions of her hands are familiar, the slope of her shoulders and the shape of her mouth, pursed in concentration…

That's just the same as it ever was.

He's up again, and she looks anxious when he steps close but fear is running cold through his veins and he doesn't know… he can barely keep it together at all. "I think I'm losing my mind," he confesses, voice cracking and then before she can say anything he's kissing her, desperately, not even caring that they're being watched. His thoughts won't be still and at any moment he could think her a demon and the king would cut him down.

He pulls away abruptly, and Therrin's face is crumpling and one hand's braced on the chest, but he blurts it out before she can speak because he doesn't know when he'll get another chance. "I love you."

It sounds like goodbye, like an apology, and her eyes go wide. "Don't."

"I don't know what to do," he protests numbly, and it's only belatedly that he realizes he's standing inappropriately close, that if someone were to see them the news would go straight to Greagoir and there would be another reprimand about inappropriate feelings toward a mage. Marshaling his tattered restraint, he straightens and steps away.

Therrin considers him a moment, and the beginnings of a flush start creeping up at his neck under her regard, because it's brazen as sin for her to stand here in the hallway and stare at him like this, but then in her hands is a measure of lyrium, pitifully small but every grain of his soul seems to yearn in the direction of it anyway.

And then there's that glorious moment when everything goes sharp and numb at once, the lyrium unfurling out through his body like rivers of starlight, and in that perfect moment nothing hurts at all.

-oOo-

It doesn't take long to burn the dead. It had taken longer to collect the remains of those left in the chantry, but only one spell to set the pyre ablaze. The grey smoke hadn't drifted off, and in the heavy fog it seems to hang, oppressively thick.

It had driven everyone else inside, but not Therrin.

_In a moment_, she'd offered, leaning on the fence-rail. _I'll be in after a moment; go on without me._

What she hadn't said is: _I can't go back in there; I'm suffocating._

But it isn't any better out here, either. The world seems shrouded in mist, airless and suspended in time, the sky pressing down flat to crush them all.

She hears footsteps, cloth rustling, a familiar, hesitant-sounding cough, and Alistair appears from the fog like something out of a dream, glancing at the still-smoldering pyre.

He doesn't fill up the quiet with unnecessary greetings. Instead he looks out into the mist, taking up a position close enough that she can hear his breathing. "I realize this might be the worst possible time to ask you this," he begins after a moment, and her heart aches a little at the sight of the dark smudges under his eyes, remnants of grief and weariness impressed in purple on his face. His eyes, though, are the same as always, full of everything he doesn't say. "But I can't seem to think about much else, the past couple of days. You told me once that you… that we had a standing appointment in Orzammar."

It isn't a question. For a moment Therrin considers holding her tongue, dragging it out and making him ask, but there's no point in it anymore. "I remember," she says, tracing her fingertips along the wooden fence-rail, blurring beads of mist into a long line of water. "It still stands, if that's what you're asking." He doesn't answer.  When she glances up, he looks surprised and a little lost. "I made a promise, Alistair," she says. "I keep my promises."

Alistair's eyebrows draw together a little in bemusement, uncomfortable but not angry. "And I don't?"

"I—" She almost expects him to just barrel through, talk over her, but he doesn't. She hadn't realized before how close he was standing, how veiled the fog makes everything seem, solemn and intimate. "You never actually promised me anything, you know," she says at last, more gently than she means to. "You can't break a promise you never made."

For some strange reason the realization is almost a comfort, but then his hands are on her shoulders, warm and firm and turning her around. She'd forgotten how large he was, so much of him that he seems to fill up the mist-shrunk world, and he isn't letting go. "Then let me make a promise to you now," he says quietly, and he still isn't letting go and her eyes track him downward as disbelief begins to claw at the back of her throat because Andraste help her Alistair is _kneeling_.

"What in the world are you doing?" she demands, shocked enough to be utterly scandalized. "Get up!"

"I…" He stops mid-motion, looking caught. "I thought…"

"We're being watched," she reminds him with a jerk of her head in the direction of the inn and the shadowy figures of his guards, ever-present and waiting.

She can only imagine what this must look like to them, with him kneeling in front of her and still holding on. Damn it all, it was bad enough to look at the Orlesian enchanters at the Tower and wonder which among them had spread the whispers, which had sneered behind her back that she was unfit for the position she held and would never have got it if not for Alistair. She is not walking into Amaranthine with guards who do the same.

"I was trying to make a point," he protests as he rises and lets go, the careful succinctness of his words holding only a shadow of petulance.

"You've made one," Therrin retorts quietly.

Alistair sighs, gazing out at the fallow field and looking supremely embarrassed. It might as well be outside Redcliffe again, or in the mountains near Haven, or any of the dozens of places he'd tripped over himself trying to do something sweet, bumbling like an overeager puppy on a mission but always with the best of intentions. Therrin bites her lip so as not to laugh, humor coming faintly desperate. "You were saying?"

"I don't know that I want to say it now," he complains. "You've hurt my feelings. I'd forgotten how mean you are."

She leans her elbows on the fence-rail. "I didn't raise an army so we could go cuddle the Archdemon, you know. A little bit of meanness sort of goes with the job description."

Alistair's expression falls serious again, though a good deal less dire. "About that." At her expectant look, he leans on the fence-rail in imitation of her posture, pitching his voice low. "I know we'd talked about it—months ago, I think—that there's a chance the Orlesian Wardens have an idea of…"

When he doesn't finish, she does it for him, the specter of Morrigan and blood magic and God-souls making her throat suddenly parched. "Of what we did?"

"Not we." Alistair shakes his head, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. "You didn't do anything. I know," he barrels on before she can protest, "I know I said differently, in Denerim. I said a lot of things I'm not proud of, then." He glances across the way at the guards, sighing. "But it wasn't you. It was my choice and I made it. So if the whole playing dumb act doesn't last, if they figure it out,  you never knew about it."

Therrin stiffens, a flurry of protests crowding into her mouth all at once but all that makes it out is, "What?"

"You never knew," he repeats, more firmly. "Once Riordan fell, I was the senior Warden. I should've been next in line for that blow and I didn't take it. If they figure out that there was blood magic at work—and I don't know how they would, but if they do—then I'll admit to the ritual, and face the consequences. You never knew about it. You're the one being tossed into the fray; it's the least I can do. And when the time comes," he presses on, overriding her protest again, "to go to Orzammar—for you, if it's before me—I'll be with you. If it's tomorrow or thirty years from now; if for some reason you go first I'll be there."

"Alistair," Therrin manages, and nothing else.

"It's only right." He straightens, and though it feels like they've shied away from actually looking at each other since the Tower he's looking now, honest and laid bare with nothing held back at all. "Come on, it is, you know it. We started this thing together. We'll end it the same way."

The right words seem to be just out of reach, tumbling right beyond her grasp, and all Therrin can think to say is, "But we didn't start it together. You were a Warden for six months before I was."

His answering grin has a reckless edge. "Details. Who needs them?"

She has the feeling she shouldn't be so baffled but her brain feels wrapped in cotton and she can't seem to do anything but belabor the point. "But that's six months."

Something catches in Alistair's expression for a moment, and then he shrugs, and smiles, and when he starts back for the inn she follows. "What kind of a six months do you think that was?" he offers, too lightly. "It only started really getting interesting when you showed up."

Which is nonsense and she knows it but she can't think of anything to say. Before she can come up with anything she realizes a figure is headed their way out of the mist, Oghren, scratching his chin as he ambles over and delivers the news that Teagan is awake.

 

* * *


	32. The Lover Abiding

The night is oppressively silent, enough to be unsettling. Lothering had buzzed with activity, once. In her years with the Chantry, Leliana had come to know the thousand sounds of the village: the lowing of cattle and the creaking of doors at the inn, the barking of dogs and rattle of wagons as they'd come in for trade.

Lothering is quiet now, quieter than she's ever known. The silence makes her heart ache, and in the unbroken hours of keeping watch over Teagan, the night seems very long.

It seems a miracle when he stirs at last, blinking in the light of the lone candle as though his eyelids are heavy, brow creasing in confusion. "Leliana?"

His voice is reedy and cracked. Immediately she pours a mug of water, settling at the bedside and holding it to his lips. Therrin had said he was terribly weak but even so, seeing Teagan unable to even sit on his own, struggling to raise a hand to the mug makes her feel a flood of sympathy.

"Thank you," he manages. "But… forgive me, I didn't expect it to be you…" He sighs, closing his eyes as though even talking is an effort. "I'd hoped you wouldn't have to… to see all this."

Leliana sets the mug aside, lacing her fingers together in her lap. "I volunteered," she informs him.

Teagan looks skeptical. "Oh?"

There's a muted clamor somewhere down the hall. Cullen, Leliana thinks, listening to the agitated tumble of voices flare and go quiet. "Yes," she answers finally. "Therrin is rather occupied, at the moment." An understatement, really. "But if you need her, I could go—"

"No," Teagan says quickly. "No. It's not necessary." The voices down the hall grow loud again, discordant and unsettled: Cullen's, rough and distressed and Therrin's, tired. "Alistair said that Cullen is… unwell," Teagan says after a moment, in a tone that indicates Alistair had said a great deal more than that.

"Yes." Leliana tugs at where her skirt's caught on the edge of the chair. "It has been a difficult few days, I'm afraid, for everyone. Though you have had it worst, I think."

"I'm better than I was." Teagan struggles to sit straighter with only limited success. "And what of you? Are you well?" At her look of surprise he explains, "You'd written about Lothering in your letters, a time or two. It must be difficult to be back."

"It… yes, it is difficult," Leliana admits, oddly touched. "Lothering was my home for two years. The Chantry was my comfort and shelter during some of the darkest times of my life. Seeing it now…" She can't finish because her chest seems to constrict around a fresh wave of grief rolling through her heart.

"I'm sorry," Teagan offers, and there's a moment's soft surprise when his hand slips to the bedside and finds hers, their fingers curling together.

Threads of comfort trail out in Leliana's mind, a brief sideways skip of her heart that she dampens immediately. "They were good people," she says at last. Vision or no, petty squabbles or no, the sisters had all been there to serve. "Lothering was dear to me, more than I had realized. There was so much life here, once," she laments. "So many people, so many lives and stories, and they all seem… lost. Even if people return, it will not be same." She sniffs. "It will all be forgotten, the way it was."

Which sounds foolish, even to her own ears, hopelessly silly in the face of it all, but Teagan merely looks thoughtful. "Would you tell me?" he asks, voice betraying his fatigue. He will be asleep again before long, but for now, his hand is still in hers and he's attempting a weary smile. "I'd never been to Lothering much. What was it like?"

Leliana thinks for a moment, and decides where to begin, and there in the dark she tells him quiet stories, of Lothering and the chantry, sweet and funny things that make him smile and ease her heart to tell. It isn't long at all before he drifts off again, and very carefully Leliana pulls her hand from his and straightens his blankets, passing a hand over his brow to soothe the worry there. He sighs in his sleep, relaxing into the bed.

After that, the night is just as still, just as quiet, but for Leliana, it is no longer quite so hard to bear.

-oOo-

Working out the kinks is _fun_. Not that Oghren hasn't seen plenty of fighting already, but these days it's mostly babysitting Alistair. And yeah, the whole General Oghren thing is pretty nice and makes the guards stand up straighter when he's around, but he's still an outsider and isn't stupid enough to think it's ever gonna be otherwise. Everyone's still just a little too new, a little too leery for anything but best behavior.

Except for _his_ best behavior. Damn, but Felsi's going to nag his ears off when he gets back.

But this… this is damned satisfying. Oghren hadn't really thought he'd miss this, but being cooped up in Denerim doesn't exactly provide opportunities for killing everything that moves, letting go and just fighting with everything he's got and not having to mince around and play careful.

Out here scouting for darkspawn, there aren't any kids to watch out for, no jumpy guards or nervous horses. Everyone here can take care of themselves; Zevran's not half as delicate as he looks, and Therrin's sodding pissed, which means things are gonna die.

'Course, having your mate go crazy on you and try to kill you is the sort of thing that can really ruin your week. Oghren would know.

He keeps an eye on the trees as Zevran and Therrin rifle through the bodies, blood-spattered and rain-streaked and grimacing in disgust at the lack of anything useful. "Nothing?"

"Unless you've a burning need for blood and mushrooms, no," Zevran returns disgustedly. "Why can't we have the good fortune to kill the rich darkspawn?"

Another time, Therrin would have cracked a joke, or Alistair would've done it. But as much as it feels like old times here and there, it isn't. "I don't get it," she says, glaring out into the woods. "It's there, I can feel it, but it's not…" She stops, listening to something Oghren can't hear. Finally she gives her head a shake, pushing to her feet.

Oghren shifts in his cloak, casting a baleful glance at the sky as rain drips off his nose. He's never going to get used to that.

Maybe trudging around through the trees looking for some crazy-strong darkspawn might not be the brightest plan in the world—especially not with Therrin walking around playing bait, they might as well have targets on their backs saying _come and get it, free meal here_—but it isn't even working.

Which is all they need: to come back empty-handed again, bloodied but unsuccessful.

Zevran shivers. "Perhaps darkspawn don't like the rain?"

"They don't like dying, either, but it doesn't stop them," Therrin points out darkly, her fingers tightening on her staff.

Zevran catches Oghren's gaze and rolls his eyes.

"Didn't stop these," Oghren grumbles, nudging one with his boot. Damn, these things are ugly.

But Zevran is cold and cranky. "I don't suppose you ever learned any wicked, heathen spells for staying warm and dry."

Therrin wipes blood from her hands on the edge of her cloak, distracted. "No."

"Of course not."

"Come on, girls," Oghren cuts in before the grumbling can get any worse. "Miles to go." He walks past Therrin, giving her a quick nudge to the arm. "Let's see if we can't find something else to kill to cheer ourselves up."

-oOo-

The world streams past in a delirious haze, dark and bright in turns and always painfully sharp down to his bones, and borne helpless upon the current it's all Cullen can do to hold on.

There are hours trickling by in a stream, slow and fast and slow again, the deep depths of night and the spear-sharpened sunbeams of afternoon and he can't keep it straight, ever, lost to the tumbling flow of blood rushing through his pain-wracked head.

It hurts, and he doesn't know why and he can't make it stop.

He is a thousand places at once; a hundred thousand times: he is very small digging weeds in the Chantry garden and watching a ladybug crawl across the back of his arm, he is sitting very still and dying of nervousness because tomorrow he's being given a post at the Tower, he is lying awake in the depths of night and wondering how in the world he's supposed to be Knight-Commander.

Greagoir will know what to do; Greagoir is dead.

(Maker help us all.)

Cullen doesn't know where he is.

The bed is small and unfamiliar and there are voices, always, voices he doesn't know, accents that slant across his ears and through his brain, a rumble of stone and a lilt of raindrops and he doesn't know them and they won't go away.

There are mages around, he can feel them (blood mages), but when he tries to go kill them he falls on his face getting out of bed and can't get back up. The taste of blood fills his mouth _(maleficar, abomination)_ but his arms and legs won't work and the elf only laughs at him when he's discovered.

There are hours passing, minutes blurring into days, and Cullen is losing them all.

There are dreams and nightmares and not-quite-sleep, hours spent drifting in a half-life with his body too tired to move and his mind too frantic to stop. When sleep does come it feels more like death, like being dragged under the surface of a cold, choppy sea and drowning in stillness.

There are bright points here and there, and he can't keep them straight but he clings to them desperately, because all else is darkness. Leliana slips into his room at all hours, and ignores that he can't get up (or can't lie down, can't be still, can't kneel for the overwhelming pain in every muscle of his body). The Chant falls from her mouth, soft and soothing and it makes something in his mind go quiet, finally, a thread of remembrance that winds through his mind uninterrupted and whole.

They pray together for what feels like hours, and every time his mind begins to drift and jerk away she pulls him back, the canticles open before them like an anchor.

_(O Maker, hear my cry:_  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places.)

There is ice in the cracks of his bones, grey and thickening, pushing him apart and splintering him from the inside.

Sometimes he will open his eyes and Therrin will be there—never alone, never, there are a host of people who follow at her back and they watch him with eyes as dark as the judgment of heaven—and those times are fractured, jagged-edged and spiraling.

Cullen thinks he's dreaming it—must be dreaming it—because she is blood-streaked and battle-weary but if there was a battle at the Tower he'd have heard about it. She drags her fingers across his brow and he flushes, unable to meet her eyes and pushing her hands away gently because it's inappropriate of her to touch him so intimately.

(Someone will see, someone will know, he will sit in front of Greagoir again and squirm with embarrassment and guilt.)

He opens his eyes and she's a dream, cradling his aching head in her hands and murmuring words of love, and he holds on tightly because she's already slipping away, burning off like fog in the morning.

He opens his eyes again and she's a demon, and she took his sword and armor so he lunges at her with his bare hands, roaring, and she's gone in an instant, vanished. As the dwarf and elf wrestle him to the ground he laughs, harsh and hysterical, because there is a mouse climbing frantically up the king's clothing and perching on his shoulder, and he's never seen anything so ridiculous in his entire life.

No one else thinks it's funny.

He opens his eyes again and he's alone—and he's never alone, he's always being watched and he can't remember why—but there are spells building somewhere (outside), he can feel them, huge and deadly and ever-shifting, magic twisting from one spell to another in an endless current.

Therrin.

Cullen sits perfectly still for a moment, listening to the sizzle-crack of lightning and the soft hiss of a blizzard, the traceries of magic against the edges of his perception. The sparks of spell-song dance before his vision like embers, pour along the back of his mind like a sunbeam.

_Oh_, he thinks, enthralled.

But another feeling churns up like a behemoth from the depths, vast and terrible and different. Magic, but not like Therrin's at all, nothing like it, null-magic in an empty vessel.

Someone is shouting. Stephen. Stephen is shouting and something is wrong. There are noises, muffled but close, the bright clash of steel and the frantic cries of battle, and before Cullen quite knows what he's doing he's moving. There is no guard to stop him now (where is everyone?).

His sword is propped in the corner of someone's room and he snatches it up, already rushing downstairs to fight, but no, he can't fight like this, he's not in armor and his head… name of Andraste, his head is killing him, and he can't do this without taking his lyrium.

There's no time for armor, but there, right there is Therrin's pack. The elf had taken the box of lyrium out of Cullen's room but he hadn't bothered to hide it, and there's only just enough for a full dose and Teagan is talking at him from bed but Cullen isn't listening.

The lyrium sings through his nerves and he's _himself_ in an instant, blessedly, impossibly normal_, _and the ferocious ache in his body and brain fades to nothing in an heartbeat. _Thank you, thank you_, he prays, reeling and overcome with a gut-wrenching flood of relief.

When he opens his eyes again everything is clear, beautifully and terribly clear. The noise of battle seems distinct but far away, the wooden floor is rough and solid beneath his knees, and Teagan is propped in bed looking ill and deeply concerned. "Cullen?" he manages, a little raspy. Cullen follows his gaze downward to the box in his hands, the little corners pressing into his skin.

The box is empty.

Time stretches and slows, a suspended moment of dawning horror that seems twisted out forever, ice settling in his stomach as he considers the wooden bottom of the box, the empty space where a little pile of lyrium should be (but isn't, because he took it all, all at once, and Wynne had been painfully specific about the need to come down off of lyrium slowly and the dire consequences of what would happen if he didn't).

There's the feeling in his head of a door closing, irrevocable and echoing as the weight of finality presses down hard on his shoulders.

_This is it, then_, he thinks dimly_, I'm going to go mad, I'm going to die_. The sense of timelessness snaps and the world is in motion again. Stephen hurtles through the door, tear-streaked and frantic and babbling about the battle, the darkspawn trying to get in and Therrin, hurt.

It's all Cullen needs to hear. "Stay with Teagan," he orders, "and don't go outside."

The sounds of battle are getting louder, desperate, and there isn't time for words. Cullen takes up his sword and rushes out to the hallway, down the stairs, grimly determined and steady as steel as he throws open the door and charges headlong into the fight.


	33. The Unarmored Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to CJK for the beta and for being so very, very tolerant, and to NotLaura for the whip-cracking.

The battle is chaos.

Cullen's previous brushes with darkspawn had been bad enough—a dozen once, a handful later—but this is a fight on an entirely different scale. The darkspawn are everywhere, a roaring mass of death and terror, blades swinging in great cleaving arcs that glitter in the sun. But there isn't time to hesitate, not so much as a heartbeat to take in the scope of the fight. Cullen plunges into the fray, sword in his hands and lyrium sharpening into a brilliant, razor-edged clarity in his mind.

Without armor it's almost absurdly easy to move, to swing, to fall into the rhythm of blows and parries and turns. The sensation of magic skates at the corners of his mind, Therrin and something else. Through the heaving mass of bodies he picks her out,  retreating unevenly and covered in blood as an odd-looking darkspawn relentlessly presses the advantage.

He couldn't have sprinted in armor, not like this, but it seems like no time at all before he reaches her, darkspawn falling in his path as they lunge for him and die in the attempt. The smells of dust and darkspawn fill his nose and he fights the urge to cough. With an upswing of steel Cullen braces himself and pushes, will gathering and flying out like a spear in time with his sword, the magic-darkspawn reeling backwards as he strips it of mana and gouges a deep slice across its chest.

Behind him there's magic, Therrin's, scraps of focus hastily cobbled together, and he can't identify the spell but it doesn't matter. She's there just out of sword-reach, rolling to her feet again and dashing the blood from her eyes with a hand. There's the low hiss of a spell being cast and the darkspawn freezes entirely; Cullen pushes forward, his sword coming down in a deadly arc to shatter it, bits of bloody ice flying like shards of glass in the sun.

The battle turns quickly after that.

The other darkspawn seem staggered by the loss of the magic-user, disorganized and blunted, and the king and Oghren harry at the sides of the pack, driving them toward the middle of the field. Arrows whistle by as creature after creature falls to Leliana's deadly aim. Therrin darts into the thick of battle with Zevran close behind, spells and daggers flying in concert and clearing a wide swath, bodies falling to the dust by fives and tens as Cullen keeps their wake clear to prevent the pack from collapsing in on itself and leaving them surrounded.

In short order there are only stragglers, and then even those are cut down.

Therrin leans heavily on her staff, breathing hard and scanning the field with narrowed eyes. "Are you all right?" Cullen asks, heading over and picking his way around the dead bodies. "You didn't—"

"Cullen?" Therrin backs away blindly, eyeing the sword in his hands with disbelief and naked fear.

He scrambles for an explanation, any explanation, but before he can put the words together he feels a cold, sharp edge at his throat.

A sword.

"Drop it," the king commands shortly, as though Cullen is an errant dog. Cullen obeys, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace as his sword falls to the ground and trying to edge a fraction away from King Alistair's blade. It doesn't work.

Therrin looks despairing, rubbing at her blood-ringed eyes. "I don't understand. I… dammit, Alistair, put it down."

With a noise of dissatisfaction Alistair lowers his sword, his expression shouting loud and clear: _so much as twitch, and I'll run you through. _"You should get inside," the king tells her, gruff and mistrusting. "You're still hurt."

"I'm fine." Therrin peers at Cullen, not comprehending. "You're not… you look better," she says, dazedly. "I thought you'd be…" She trails off, swallowing hard and blinking in confusion. "I thought I'd come back and you'd be raving, or… or dead, but not… you're better?" she asks, hoarse and a little incredulous.

_Not even close_, Cullen thinks desperately, but he's nodding anyway, and something in Therrin's expression cracks in relief.

"Therrin," Alistair says again, more firmly. "Get inside. See to Teagan."

"Come, Amell," Leliana says, slipping an arm around Therrin's shoulders to lead her inside, casting a dubious glance backward over her shoulder. "Stephen will be worried."

At that, Therrin goes without protest, tired and distracted and disappearing into the inn.

"Right." Alistair's voice is hard and he doesn't sheathe his sword. "Three hours ago you were shouting about killing blood mages, and now you're just better? That's convenient."

"No." Cullen licks his cracked lips, ignoring the sting of it. "I heard the fight, and I came to help. But my head was… I stopped to take some lyrium, first. I couldn't have fought, otherwise." The confession almost eases the crushing sickness in his chest. "In my… in my confused state, I took more than I'd intended."

Alistair frowns. "How much more?"

Cullen's laugh is humorless and cracked. "All of it."

Alistair winces. "Damn." Something indecipherable passes across his expression like a shadow. "Wynne said that if you went…"

"Mad?" At Alistair's nod, Cullen hesitates. "She'd mentioned something about a plan, back at the Tower. In case I didn't make it."

Alistair nods again, slowly, glancing at Oghren and Zevran as they finish wiping their weapons clean and take up positions nearby. "She's got an arrangement in place," he says carefully. "To see that you're cared for."

Rebelliousness flares in Cullen's mind at the thought of being a doddering vegetable, helpless as an infant and dependent on the care of others. Or worse, a raving madman, a rabid dog on a chain no one has the heart to put down. "Cared for," he echoes dully, a host of undesirable eventualities presenting themselves in the back of his mind.

Alistair doesn't answer, eyes seeking out the horizon as though he wishes he could flee the conversation.

Cullen rubs at his face, immensely weary and sick at heart, the weight of inevitability dragging down hard at his insides. "Look, I…" Probably not the best way to speak to a king, it occurs to him dimly, but Alistair's turning, curious, and propriety doesn't matter because Cullen's quickly running out of time. The path before him seems dark, full of the helpless terror of his mind breaking into ever-smaller fragments. The memory of the last days makes bile rise in his throat. "I know you don't owe me anything, but if you've any loyalty at all to a fellow… a fellow former templar. I don't want to live like that," he admits, blunt as he's ever been. "If that's all there is, madness, and pain… I'd rather die."

Something falls in Alistair's expression, but Cullen barely registers it, determined to finish.

"You've seen what happens to me. I can't… I'd be a danger. To Therrin," Cullen barrels on, and there, at the mention of Therrin he knows he's got the king's attention. "I've already tried to kill her once," he finishes, though the words cost him an ocean of grief to say.

"Twice," Alistair corrects grimly.

_Maker, help me_. "Twice," Cullen echoes, fighting back a creeping tide of panic and loss. "And now that… that it's gone, the lyrium, it could happen again." He catches the king's gaze and holds it, praying that Alistair will understand. "I don't want to live that way. And I don't want to be a danger to Therrin every waking moment; you know that. If it comes to it… I'd rather be put out of my misery."

Alistair blinks, disbelieving. "Are you asking me to _kill_ you?"

"Yes," Cullen says, relieved. Andraste's mercy, what a thing to hope for, but it's hope that's pushing its way through the despair, nonetheless.

Alistair groans faintly, sagging a bit. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes," Cullen says again, tense with waiting.

Alistair mumbles something unintelligible, looking supremely irritated. "You know this is the third time you've asked me to toss you on the fire in order to protect Therrin. I'm beginning to think you might be trying to tell me something."

It shouldn't be funny—and it isn't really, at all—but something about it's just so desperately absurd that Cullen can't help but laugh, faint and the slightest bit hysterical. "I thought kings were supposed to catch on faster."

"You and me both," Alistair answers immediately, despairing. Cullen tries to smile in response, but all humor dies at the king's serious expression. "How much longer will you be… like this?"

"Lucid?"

Alistair nods.

"I don't know," Cullen confesses.

"Talk to Therrin," Alistair says, just this side of an order. "You never know, she might have some brilliant plan. Pull something off. Stranger things have happened."

"I will," Cullen promises, heading back for the inn.

"Wait." When Cullen turns back Alistair gestures at the ground. "Your sword."

"Ah." Cullen picks it up carefully, wary. "Thanks." Alistair only nods, looking troubled and more than a little weary.

In the doorway of the inn Cullen pauses, blinking at the relative dimness and trying to give his eyes a moment to adjust, but there isn't time. Therrin is waiting, crossing the room with the empty box in her hands, visibly upset. "Teagan said you…" She stops short in front of him, Dog whining at her side. "I thought you were better."

"No." Therrin makes a little noise of distress and Cullen's eyes adjust enough to see a pair of the king's guards watching. "No. Come on. Not here."

Upstairs is more private, and for once no one protests when Therrin tells Dog to watch the door and Cullen shuts it behind them. Therrin slumps onto the edge of the bed, watching him. "Why?" she asks without preamble, turning the box over in her hands as though it might hold an answer.

Cullen pushes back the sense of panic and sighs. "I heard the fight, outside. But my head ached and I…" He grimaces. "I was disoriented. By the time I remembered that I was only supposed to take a little, I'd taken it all. And Stephen was hysterical; he said you were hurt." He makes a helpless gesture. "There was nothing to do but go fight."

Therrin pushes hair out of her face, miserable and making a face at the mess of blood on her fingers.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" he asks, perturbed.

"I'm fine." A half-hearted spell warms the water in the little basin as she crosses the room. "Head wounds bleed a lot, is all. Once you got the general out of my face so I could heal up, I was fine." She turns away from him, taking up a rough little cloth and scrubbing at her hands.

Cullen sits tiredly in the spot she vacated. "The king said to ask you if you had any brilliant plans."

Therrin thinks a moment, scrubbing, and Cullen watches the water in the basin go pink from blood. "No," she admits finally, quiet in defeat. "I don't."

Cullen rubs his hands over his eyes. "It was worth a try, I suppose."

Therrin considers him silently a moment. "We still have the medicines Wynne sent along. They haven't done much so far, though. But we could push the doses, I guess, we could…" Her fingers grasp uselessly at ideas that fall short. "I don't know."

"Neither do I." He rubs his hands together idly, palms rough against each other and gritting his teeth against a creeping tide of dread.

Therrin dries her hands slowly, lost for a moment in thought. "How long do you have before it gets bad again, do you think?"

_I don't know,_ he almost says, just as he'd told the king, but Therrin's watching him and he tries to come up with a better answer, wracking his memory. "Probably not long," he ventures at last. "The last time there was anything even close—after Uldred…" he trails off.

She nods, waiting.

Cullen lets out a breath. "Those of us left, after the attack… we went through a lot of lyrium. Catching up. It had been days without it, I think? It took a few days to get back to normal once we had it again. So…" He frowns. "Hours? Probably not as much as a day, even, that I'll be lucid."

Therrin considers that a moment, the silence hanging between them. "Well." Her mouth purses the littlest bit as she thinks. "I think… I've been scouting; I've got to get this darkspawn blood off me. And it's probably been… what, almost a week? Since you've had a decent meal?"

Cullen nods silently.

She offers a wan attempt at a smile that doesn't quite make it. "Why don't you see if there's anything Stephen hasn't exploded? And I'll get cleaned up, and then later we can talk." Something in her expression wavers and steadies.

Cullen's stomach rumbles at the thought of food and he nods again, pushing off the edge of the bed. "Very well." Without warning there's an upswell of desire to say more, sudden and nearly desperate, but he forces it down, pushes it away. When he reaches the door he glances back to find Therrin shredding the edge of the fraying cloth with her fingernails, not looking his direction. Without making it any harder or dragging it out a moment more he turns, and pulls the door closed behind him.

It is easily the most awkward meal of his life.

A glance around the hall makes it painfully clear that everyone knows, and no one so much as looks at him directly as he sits at the long table, balancing the brimming bowl of stew. In the silence, the scraping of his chair seems disturbingly loud. King Alistair doesn't so much as glance his way, and Zevran seems intent on peering at the bottom of his bowl. Leliana creeps downstairs in a whisper of fabric, worried but mute, settling into the chair beside him without a sound.

The clanking of spoons is the only noise for what seems like an interminably long time.

Finally Oghren looks up from his bowl, frowning at Cullen with bushy eyebrows drawn together. "You look like shit."

Zevran snorts, and it's a relief to have the silence broken—Leliana chides Oghren quietly and Alistair shifts, uncomfortable and clearing his throat—but even that's better than the heaviness of before. "I'm not surprised," Cullen answers slowly. "I think this hasn't been my week."

Leliana gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, light and reassuring, and thankfully it's easier after that, conversations flowing back and forth with something like normality. Cullen nods in the right places and finishes his meal dutifully, hardly tasting it.

Back in the hall upstairs he can hear voices: Teagan's and Stephen's, sounding serious, Dog panting not far away, and Therrin, cursing under her breath, something about… nugs? Cullen pushes open the door.

She startles, dropping the broken comb and frowning as though it was the source of all the trouble. "Damn."

"Is everything all right?" He closes the door but doesn't advance, mindful of earlier and the fear on her face she'd had at the sight of him.

"Yes, it's fine." She scoops up the comb. "My hair. Is… stubborn. And full of knots." The comb clatters when she drops it to the tabletop in defeat. "I give up."

"That's the spirit."

Therrin turns, skeptical. "Did you just make a joke?"

Cullen hesitates, unable to interpret the expression on her face. "Maybe?"

She looks for a moment like she might laugh, or cry, but she doesn't. "Of all the times," she says, not quite steadily. When she looks at him again her eyes are searching, serious. "How are you?"

_Terrified. Trapped. Not hungry anymore_. Cullen leans a shoulder against the door. "I've been better," he admits.

Therrin grimaces. "I can imagine." She considers him a moment in silence, thinking, and though he'd been careful to keep the distance between them for safety's sake she ignores it, crossing the little room like a battlefield and slipping her arms around him.

_Don't_, he almost says, alarmed, _it's dangerous_, but he can't bring himself to do it. Her breath is warm on his chest, the dampness of her hair seeping through his clothes and making them cling. She makes a muffled sniffling sound, fingers tight in the fabric of his shirt.

Cullen puts his hands to her shoulders carefully, a whine of concern buzzing in his mind. "Are you crying?"

Therrin's shoulders jerk when she makes a noise, thick and unhappy. "No." He doesn't really believe her but when she pulls back a little she really isn't, and it's a small, vague relief.

Relief gives way to something else entirely when she pushes up on tiptoe and kisses him. And maybe this is the worst possible time in the world for this but it doesn't matter; time is running out and if he thinks about it he's going to waste what little time he's got so he stops thinking entirely. He could be careful, he tells himself, he would have stopped if she'd hesitated but she doesn't. Her arms slip around his neck as he kisses her, hard, all reluctance falling away as his hands find her sides and her fingers curl in his hair. They totter off-balance, trying to move opposite directions, and Therrin's shoulders hit the door with force enough to drive the breath from her chest but she's already pulling him in again.

She squirms as his mouth finds the side of her neck, pulse staccato and racing beneath his lips, her hands on his shoulders as she tries to lever herself higher against his body. The door rattles in its frame behind them, dull, heavy sounds he scarcely registers. But she glances behind her, and as he finds the hem of her robe and works it upward he says, "They're going to hear you if you keep doing that."

"Me?" Therrin protests, the word cut short with a surprised, wanting noise when his fingers slip higher and find what they'd been seeking. "You—" But whatever she would've said gets swallowed. "Then maybe we shouldn't be doing this against the door," she mutters pointedly, flushed and tugging at his shirt.

"Oh." Cullen agrees dimly, breathing hard. "Probably not."

Therrin's answering laugh is despairing.

The bed is uncomfortable but Cullen hardly cares; if it could just last like this, forever, it would be perfect. But the light's already slanting across the room, shadows of evening creeping in and darkening and time is slipping away. He tries to memorize this, just as it is with nothing held back: the exact fit of her hips against his and the softness of her mouth, the sounds she makes muffled against his skin and the texture of her hair in his fingers, knots and all. _Remember_, he wills himself, trying to burn it into his mind so deeply it can't ever be forgotten.

From the slow desperation in her movements, he thinks Therrin might be doing the same.

Night is deepening around them by the time he gives over to fatigue, days of being unwell exacting their toll and exertion leaving him almost blessedly numb. After the private misery of isolation it's a comfort to collapse and be caught, to lean his sweaty forehead against Therrin's neck and feel her arms encircling him as she murmurs soothing little things he can't make out.

He tries to hold on but sleep drags at him, inevitable and cold. When a plank of the floor creaks he rouses a little, blinking tiredly at the dimness. Therrin pads across the room, quiet on bare feet, wearing his shirt and pulling at a blanket. He rubs at one eye. "Are you leaving?"

She freezes, startled for a moment before recovering. "No." She leaves the blanket on the floor, slips back to the bed to kiss his temple and run a hand through his hair, reassuring. "I'm right here. I just thought it might be safer to have a little distance."

Distance, he thinks. "In case I wake up in the middle of the night, think you're a demon, and try to kill you again?" he asks, too tired to give the bitterness any real heat.

A pause. "Something like that, yes," she manages after a moment, without accusation. "Don't worry, I'm not leaving. Sleep."

He wants to protest but the feel of her fingers dragging through his hair is calming, lulling, and he's drifting down before he knows it, barely aware of it when she presses a kiss to his ear and leaves his side.

-oOo-

It's dark when he wakes, without a candle or lamp or even a sliver of moonlight for illumination, and Therrin isn't in bed beside him which is odd. But when he listens he can hear her breathing in the dark, close and quiet, and rubs his eyes a moment before he rolls over and finds she's sleeping on the floor.

It isn't exactly normal, but living with mages you see all sorts of strange things. Really, in the scope of their lives, this is barely remarkable at all. But the room is cold and he rolls the last bit out of bed, crouching down to scoop her into his arms and finding that she's freezing. She makes a confused, bleary little sound at the shift in altitude and stiffens in surprise. "Wha—?"

"You fell asleep on the floor," he says with a hint of a scold in his voice, settling her onto the bed and crawling back in beside her, pulling the blankets up over them both. "You shouldn't let yourself get so worn out; you'll get sick."

Wasn't… wasn't she sick before? Or maybe it was someone else. He can't remember just then, everything's blurred indistinct. Therrin is still faintly, oddly rigid beside him, and he can feel her frown even though he can't see it. "Cullen…"

"Mmm," he murmurs in response, half-asleep again already, shifting closer and tugging up the hem of her nightshirt from habit, stroking up over the skin of her thigh, her hip, the familiar warmth and curves.

Therrin props herself on an elbow. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." It's strange that she sounds so concerned. "You were the one sleeping on the floor," he reminds her. But she seems to relax when he brushes his lips against hers, the rigidity bleeding away slowly when he deepens the kiss. His fingers slide under the cloth and skate across her ribs, over a breast, down in a long, tender swoop toward the soft curve of her belly. He breaks away then to kiss the space below her ear, along her throat, his other hand still tracing circles near her navel. "I think we should have another one," he mumbles against her neck, warm and getting warmer and pulling her closer into him. Maybe this one would have her hair and his eyes, maybe this time they'd have a girl…

Therrin leans away, hands braced against him. "Another what?"

"Another child," he half-laughs, bending down again to kiss her and frowning when she stiffens and doesn't respond. "What?"

She swallows hard; he can feel the jerky movement of it beside him. "Cullen, do you know who I am?"

It's his turn to be confused because this is _beyond_ strange. She sounds frightened and upset, and he doesn't want to alarm her further. Perhaps a spell had gone wrong; perhaps she's overworked. Maybe just a little slow to come around from her dreams; it's happened before. "Yes," he manages slowly. "You're Therrin." When she doesn't respond, he prompts, "My wife?"

She makes a little sound that might be a strangled sob. "Oh?"

"Yes." He pulls his hand from her nightdress and free of the blankets, rubbing her arm because she seems upset and he doesn't know why. A thread of alarm begins to uncurl in his chest, winding out anxious and unsettled. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Her voice is hoarse, hands still braced against him. "For how long?"

For… he can't remember, exactly, (why can't he remember?) but there's a challenge in her voice and he thinks it might be some sort of test. "A couple of years? I don't…"

A blurry rushing feeling like water drags at his mind, a traitorous whisper of _not real_ and _begone_ and… no. No, that's not right, this is _real_, she's here and their son is…

Not.

Not real, never real at all, false memories entangled with the real ones and muddled indistinct.

Clarity comes down in his brain like a cleaver of ice. He remembers lyrium, and Lothering, and the tattered remnants of a demon's vision dangled before him in a brutal tease, a magic cage and a hiss in his mind and a thousand things he'd been offered, and none of them right, none of them real. He makes some noise and barely hears himself but he shudders, hard, and Therrin's arms come around him and hold on, and in the deep-black-darkness of the night he holds himself still and prays and tries not to miss what was never his to lose.


	34. The Mage's Legacy

Teagan's balance is terrible. Leliana thinks that perhaps she should've expected this a bit more—after all, he'd been confined to bed from the weakness the poison left behind, and this is his first attempt at walking—but it's still a bit of a surprise. She braces herself against his side as he tries to walk, one of his arms around her shoulder and the other holding on to the wall, and though most men would be irritable or impatient at such limited mobility Teagan is grinning, pleased beyond reason to finally be upright on his own.

Almost on his own, at least.

"Do you think we could manage the stairs?" he asks, hopeful. When he turns his hair falls across his eyes; absently, he pulls the hand on the wall away to flick it back out of his face. It is not the best of ideas. Not that Leliana necessarily feels like complaining when his balance fails and he teeters sideways, but to keep them both from tumbling to the ground she's got to hold on to him with both hands, pushing him back upright with an effort and hoping his knees don't buckle again.

By the time they're both righted she still hasn't let go, and his grin hasn't lessened a bit.

"Are you sure you want to try the stairs?" she asks.

"Absolutely." He gives a quiet laugh. "I'll take them slowly, I promise. I've no wish to break my nose again."

Leliana shifts, pushing her shoulder out of the way and ignoring the warm curl of his fingers against her arm. "Again?"

"I broke it twice as a boy," Teagan explains, amused despite the strain of exertion. "Once with Eamon. I don't suppose he intended to trip me, but it worked out that way. And then again when I was…" he trails off, looking vaguely sheepish. "Well. I don't suppose that particular story would be terribly appropriate."

Leliana raises her eyebrows, intrigued. "Oh?"

Teagan laughs, faintly embarrassed. "Another time, perhaps. For now, let's try those stairs."

"Slowly, and without breaking your nose, yes?" Leliana reminds him, wondering if Teagan being up and about was such a good idea after all.

They do take the stairs very, very slowly. The burden of supporting Teagan's weight is eased considerably when Alistair's eyes light up at the sight of them and he bounds out of his chair to help. "Teagan!"

Teagan smiles. "You haven't left for Denerim without me, I see. Kind of you."

"Without my only arrow-shield? What kind of man do you think I am?" Alistair demands. But all joking aside, he is patient and steady as they walk Teagan across the floor.

When they settle him into a chair at the long table he sighs gratefully, smile still firmly in place and looking considerably improved. Poor man, Leliana thinks, warm and amused. Confinement to bed is terribly boring, but Teagan bore it better than she would have expected. Even so, she'd nearly run through every story she knew to keep him entertained, so many that even Stephen had wandered off in disinterest. Teagan hadn't complained.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, putting a hand to his shoulder to get his attention. Therrin and Stephen are in the corner practicing spells, tiny flickers of lightning in the air between them as Stephen's hair stands on end. After countless hours of nothing to look at but a wall, the display catches Teagan's interest immediately.

"No. Thank you." His glance at Alistair is wry. "I'm surprised Eamon hasn't sent out a search party yet. Or the entire army."

"He may have," Alistair admits, sitting down. "But he'll have expected us to take the northern road. I can't imagine why he'd think to send a search party to Lothering." He runs a hand over his hair, rueful and a little tired. "He'll probably shout at me when I get back to Denerim. I can practically hear him now. Not that I blame him; he's probably anxious to get back to Redcliffe before too much longer."

Teagan stills, and while his expression doesn't give away much Leliana is well-trained enough to see the minute traces of confusion in the quick jerk of Teagan's eyebrows, caution in the set of his jaw. "Get back to Redcliffe?"

"To Isolde," Alistair clarifies, reaching for the rather ancient wheel of cheese on the table and cutting off a chunk, oblivious to Teagan's baffled reserve. "To finish rebuilding. How's that going, by the way? You never said."

"Very well," Teagan admits, still cautious. "When I was last in Redcliffe, it was going very well. Eamon hasn't… spoken with you?"

"I wouldn't say that. Eamon's always got a word or two for me," Alistair says, leaning in his chair until it's balanced on its back two legs. "When I get back to Denerim I suspect he'll have a great deal more than one or two words. Which'll be nothing compared to Cecily, I'm sure."

A shadow crosses Teagan's expression, concerned but fleeting, and when he glances her direction Leliana can nearly feel his trepidation. Why would Eamon not have told Alistair about Teagan taking over the arling?

But there's a ruckus from upstairs, the muffled sound of raised voices and a crash, then another, the shouting getting louder and venomously angry. Cullen, raving again.

The spell at Therrin's fingertips flickers out, her expression going shuttered in an instant. Leliana gives her a sympathetic glance but Therrin doesn't see it. Stephen crawls closer, practically in her lap, solemn-faced and worried.

Another crash comes from upstairs, followed by Zevran's voice, raised, and it all goes quiet. After a minute of silence the door creaks open, and Zevran pads downstairs with a bloody lip, looking disgusted. "You do not pay me enough for this, Warden."

Therrin adjusts Stephen as he clambers onto her leg. "I don't pay you at all," she answers.

"Ah, yes. That would explain it."

But the strained humor falls completely flat as more sounds come from upstairs, sobbing, raw-edged and harsh. Therrin's face goes even more blank than before. "You've got him tied?"

Zevran nods shortly. "If I did not, he would have killed you already." Leliana shoots him a glare—does he have to be so cruel about it?—but Zevran ignores her entirely.

Therrin only considers his words, unnaturally still. "I see." She darts an uneasy glance upstairs, hesitating before she frowns down at Stephen. "Why don't we take a walk, hmm? Get some fresh air."

_Get away from Cullen_, Leliana thinks, and wonders if anywhere they could go on foot would possibly be far enough.

Stephen doesn't protest. Therrin casts a quick healing spell for Zevran's bloody lip; when they leave and the door shuts behind them Alistair sighs. "He's not getting better, is he?"

Zevran wipes the last bit of blood from his mouth. "No."

Gloom hangs over them all for a moment, dreary and cold. Teagan shifts, and from his posture Leliana suspects he's going to change the subject a moment before he asks, "When do you think we can start off for Amaranthine?" He offers a rueful smile. "I might have to be strapped into a saddle, but I think I could manage it."

Alistair doesn't smile. "As soon as possible. And we'll have to make it to Denerim, first, or else Eamon will have my head."

Zevran mulls it over. "What do you intend to do with our mad templar? Toss him over the back of a horse? Let him scream at every rock and tree between here and the city?"

Something in Alistair's expression darkens. "I don't know yet. But we'll need to leave soon."

When the lull after Alistair's words gets uncomfortably glum, Teagan tries to steer the conversation toward lighter things—Denerim in springtime, and the ships coming in from Orlais and Antiva—and Zevran plays along, the barely-subtle thrill of a flirt as he chimes in with a smirk. Leliana doubts that Teagan is really as oblivious to Zevran's flirting as he appears.

But Alistair's expression never loses its troubled look, not even as Zevran's insinuations get more outrageous and comical, and that alone is enough for Leliana to feel as though the path ahead of them has gone even bleaker than before.

-oOo-

Cullen's fall is rapid and brutally hard. The little room is a cage, wooden instead of magic (the magic had been round and this room has corners, but a cage is a cage is a cage). When he can he paces from one end to another, shivering all over as though he could shake off the ache in his body and the stabbing needle-sharp pain in his head.

He can't. The pain is everywhere and inescapable, thoughts spinning frantic one on top of another as his life falls to pieces and overlaps, memories butted up against each other carelessly and blurred and nothing in the world makes sense.

(This is dark magic, _blood_ magic, he was a puppet but now he's not and if he could get his hands on the mages he can feel just outside he would kill them and end this.)

(Maker and Andraste, please let this end.)

It hurts. He is bleeding memories, bleeding feeling, poised on the edge of a knife and falling down all at once, and no matter how fervently he begs for an end all is darkness, and cold, and the pain that never, never goes away.

At last, everything snaps.

When Cullen awakens again it's to sunlight, bright as midday and slanting across the room in golden streams. The bed is uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but it's warm and the blankets are tucked around him. It doesn't seem alarming. No one would have tucked blankets around him if they'd meant to do him harm.

There are voices some distance away, unfamiliar. When he pushes up in bed his arms are weak, as though he'd been sick, or starved, though it doesn't make much sense because if he'd been sick he would remember it.

Cullen wobbles for a moment when he stands up, unsteady on his feet and taking it slow, holding to the bedpost for support and looking around with the faintest flicker of dull curiosity.

He doesn't know this room. It doesn't particularly bother him.

When he pulls on the knob the door swings open with a quiet creak. There are still voices coming from somewhere—below?—and Cullen holds onto the wall of the hallway to steady himself, heading slowly in the direction of the noise.

At the top of the stairs he stops. There are people down there staring up at him and he doesn't know them, and it makes him hesitate. One of the women pushes out of her chair and waits at the bottom of the steps. "Cullen?"

He's not sure what to say. When he doesn't speak she looks to the others and back to him, beginning to frown. "How are you feeling? Are you hungry?"

Hungry. His stomach growls a little at the thought of food and he nods. By the time he makes it to the bottom of the stairs the woman has readied him a bowl of stew and a spoon. When he looks up the other people in the room are watching him, and he doesn't know what to make of it. He sinks carefully into the nearest chair and takes a bite of the stew. It's good, and not quite hot enough to burn his tongue, and at the taste of it his hunger sharpens into something demanding.

The woman watches him eat a few bites, still frowning. Hadn't she called him by name? He hesitates. "I'm sorry. Have we met?" Her mouth opens a second and nothing comes out. He wonders if he's offended her. "I'm Cullen," he offers, and puts down the bowl to hold out a hand politely.

She only looks at him for a moment and the color drains from her face. "Therrin," she says in response, making no attempt to take his hand.

"I see," he says, and, "nice to meet you." She stares at him and he doesn't know why, and in the silence that follows there seems to be nothing to do but eat. In any case, the stew is very good.

-oOo-

"You win," Teagan announces, amused and only a little resigned as he gives over his king. "Again."

Leliana resets the pieces nimbly. "I could let you win, if you like." The annoyance in his glance speaks volumes as to what he thinks of that. "Are you interested in another game?" she ventures. Best not to assume, after all, but with Teagan tired out from a morning of walking around the inn and all the way out to the fence outside, there's little enough else to do.

Inactivity is wearing, and the confinement of the inn leaves everyone a bit restless.

Teagan offers a smile anyway. "Of course."

There's a knock at the door as Leliana sets the pieces back into their rows, and at Teagan's word Alistair pokes his head through the doorway a moment before entering. "Please tell me you're doing something interesting," he says before slumping into the empty chair like an overgrown boy.

"Just playing," Teagan answers, indicating the checkered board. "Or rather, she's playing, and I'm losing. Repeatedly."

"But so graciously," Leliana insists, smiling. How many men would've given up by now, frustrated? Or suggested another activity, a game they knew they could win?

_Patience and persistence are good things, Leliana. And have so many other applications. _She sighs, reining back in her runaway thoughts and pretending not to see Teagan's curious glance.

A quick double-tap at the door is all the notice Therrin gives before she peeks in to check on Teagan. "How are you feeling?"

Teagan sits up a little straighter, undisturbed by Therrin's not-entirely-polite intrusion. "Fine. Much improved, thanks to you." But he can't hide his wince as Therrin pushes in, holding a bowl of something and setting it down at the table beside the bed.

It is without question the most noxious-looking medicine Leliana has ever seen.

Teagan looks a bit green, eyeing it warily. "Another tonic?"

"Last one, I think," Therrin answers distractedly, oblivious to Teagan's distaste. "After this, you should be improved enough not to need any more." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, not bothering to push it back into place when most of it falls forward again. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No. Thank you, no; you've been most helpful already."

"Good." Therrin hesitates, glancing at the door and looking a bit sick. "I'm going to go check on Cullen." She grimaces.

Leliana nods, sympathetic. "Be careful, Amell."

When the door closes behind her, Teagan sighs, taking up the bowl of tonic and considering the contents without enthusiasm. "That took her all morning to make," Alistair points out, trying to smother a grin at Teagan's nauseated look.

Teagan doesn't quite make a face. "I suppose I should be grateful that she's so… persistent. With so much else going on."

With Cullen being blank and hollow as one of those Tranquil at the Circle Tower, Leliana thinks. It had been horrific when Therrin explained what they were; the emptiness in their eyes had made her shiver. Leliana can't help but think that Cullen has the same look, now, without memory, without real feeling, without anything.

"She is quite devoted, in her way," Leliana says lightly, giving the medicine a pointed look Teagan doesn't miss. "You could have done worse than to marry her."

Teagan looks abashed for a moment before poking a finger experimentally at the surface of the tonic. It wobbles, more gelatinous than liquid. He shudders.

"You're lucky she didn't try to poison you," Alistair points out, grinning at Teagan's trepidation. "Running off to propose and then changing your mind like that. Mages are dangerous, you know."

Teagan glares half-heartedly, unimpressed. "I didn't _run off_ to propose. Well. I did, I suppose." He sighs, considering the bowl of tonic and looking sicker by the moment. "I'll pay you to get rid of this."

Alistair laughs. "Not a chance."

Teagan steels himself and drinks, eyes squeezed shut as he gulps down the tonic. He nearly drops the bowl when the last of it's gone, taking Leliana's offered cup of tea gratefully afterward to wash down the taste. "That's vile," he manages faintly.

"Wynne's medicines always tasted like honey," Alistair offers, amused. "Therrin's always taste like something she scraped off a rock and set on fire."

Teagan looks ill. "Don't get me wrong, I am thankful."

"But it doesn't make it taste better," Leliana finishes, hiding a smile at Teagan's doleful nod.

Alistair shifts forward in his chair, deliberately casual—too casual, Leliana thinks, watching Alistair's interest sharpen. "So why _did_ you propose, exactly?"

Leliana blinks a moment, taken utterly aback. The nobles of Orlais had been subtle as hidden daggers; no king would never have asked so blunt a question with such frank and open intent.

Teagan's glance at Leliana is a little alarmed, a shared moment of concern.

"You said before that you weren't thinking with your—"

"Alistair," Leliana chides, interrupting.

He settles back into the chair, eyes keen and narrowed. "Not that I want the sordid details if you were involved with her or anything, but none of this seems right, to me. And neither of you seem particularly torn up that you broke it off."

"I didn't break it off," Teagan says, beleaguered, considering Alistair for a moment in silence. "Alistair, has Eamon mentioned anything about Redcliffe to you?"

Alistair frowns, wary at the change of subject. "It doesn't come up often. Why, what's going on?"

Teagan's glance at Leliana is worried, unhappy, and for a moment he's quiet. Leliana knows the face of an inner struggle, what men look like when they are coming to a decision. Teagan has that look. At long last he lets out a slow breath, leaning back onto the propped pillows of his bed. "Eamon probably decided you had enough on your mind, and didn't need to concern yourself," he begins.

Alistair raises his eyebrows but holds his silence.

"He informed me that he won't be returning to Redcliffe, not permanently," Teagan says slowly, watching Alistair's expression. "He intends to remain in Denerim, to advise you. This summer he intends to pass on the arling to me."

Alistair considers this a moment, frowning. "Why?"

Teagan hesitates, clearly unhappy. "I believe he thinks you need all the experienced political allies you can get, and—"

"No," Alistair interrupts doubtfully. "Why would he give over the arling? Isolde's pregnant, isn't she?"

"Yes," Teagan admits, uncomfortable.

"Then why would he give the arling over to you? Why not wait until his child is born and pass it down to his heir?" A scowl creeps into Alistair's expression, a furrow between his eyebrows that hadn't been there in their time on the road during the Blight.

Teagan is quiet a moment. "Alistair…" He grimaces, pained.

Alistair doesn't look moved. "If there's something going on—something serious enough to disrupt the normal laws of succession, concerning an arling in _my_ kingdom—I have the right to know about it."

Leliana stills, uncertain, watching both men carefully and feeling the balance of power tilt and shift from favored almost-uncle to subject, from favored almost-nephew to king.

It takes a moment for Teagan to recover. "Eamon… doesn't believe that Isolde's child is his own. And it's very important to him that the arling stay in the Guerrin family. That's why I proposed to Therrin; Eamon told me to get my affairs in order, to be ready to take over and carry on the Guerrin family name. Therrin's still a heroine in Redcliffe; she was the first person to come to mind when I considered marriage." His fingers tighten on the blanket. "It wasn't a perfect plan, I admit, but I was…" He glances at Leliana. "I was a bit in shock, to be honest."

Alistair's scowl deepens. "Isolde's child isn't Eamon's." It isn't a question.

"That's what Eamon indicated he believed," Teagan says carefully. "The timing was wrong, from his illness, there was…" He gestures uselessly, uncomfortable. "He has strong enough reason to believe it that he's passing on the arling."

Leliana half-expects Alistair to go surly, to mutter something about Isolde—there was never any love lost between them, she'd seen how they'd acted toward one another in Redcliffe—but Alistair is thinking, sharp-eyed as he takes it all in. His glance at Leliana is full of a reserve she'd not seen before, not in Alistair. "You don't seem surprised."

"I confided in Leliana," Teagan admits immediately. "At the Circle Tower, just after the engagement… ended." He hesitates. "She agreed to keep it between us. I know how sensitive this matter is."

Leliana meets Alistair's gaze. "I could leave, if you would prefer."

Alistair mulls it over, dissatisfied, then shakes his head. "If you already know, there isn't any point. But I wish you'd told me sooner." He shifts in his chair. "So if Eamon isn't the father of Isolde's child, who is?" he asks at last, voice flat. "If he's still in Redcliffe, if he makes an issue of it... this could _ruin_ Eamon, if it gets out."

"Ah," Teagan says delicately, "no." He rearranges the hem of the blanket, uncomfortable. "It's my understanding that the man Eamon suspected is dead."

Alistair looks deeply unconvinced. "Eamon was ill, and then gone. People talk. If this man had had so much as one night in his cups at the tavern, half the town could know."

"No," Teagan assures him quickly, "Eamon didn't believe it was anyone who would be able talk."

"But he isn't sure," Alistair presses, relentless and deeply concerned. "A lot of men left Redcliffe and didn't come back. If it's assumed this man died at Denerim when he didn't, that could be a very costly mistake."

"Alistair," Teagan protests, nearly miserable. Something in the king's expression is unwavering, demanding, and Teagan only looks resigned. "He wasn't… certain," he continues. "But Eamon had reason to believe Isolde had carried on an affair with the mage."

Leliana doesn't give any outward indication of her surprise, but it's the last thing she would've expected. Her mind begins dissecting the information out of habit, trying to piece the news together with the incomplete parts of all else she knows about Isolde.

"The blood mage?" Alistair demands, stunned and angry.

"Yes," Teagan admits. "And if it's true then there's no need to worry about an issue being made of it. Dead men tell no tales." His mouth tightens. "Eamon hasn't told Isolde about his… decision. For all she knows, he suspects nothing." He shrugs slightly. "That's all I know, I'm afraid."

Alistair goes quiet, brooding.

The implications of it whir through Leliana's thoughts, quick and dense with meaning. "Does Amell know?" she asks—but no, of course she wouldn't know.

"No," Teagan confirms, puzzled. "Is there a reason why she should?"

Leliana chooses her words carefully. "The mage—Jowan—he and Amell were very close. She mourned him bitterly."

Alistair frowns. "It wasn't _that_ bad."

Impatience presses at Leliana's mind and she pushes it away. "She could not discuss it with you. You made your feelings on the subject clear; she was careful not to speak to you about him. But she told me many things." It had been Leliana's first real glimpse into the lives of mages; what little love they had to hold onto, how deeply they grieved when that little bit was lost.

But Therrin had never let Alistair see it.

Teagan frowns, a bit disbelieving. "Mourned him? After everything he'd done? She was the one to send him back to the templars, as I remember."

"Of course," she answers, faintly exasperated but careful to keep it out of her voice. "She loved him, dearly. She considered him her brother," Leliana explains. "His deeds—while terrible—did not erase her love for him. What if it was your brother?" she presses, gratified at Teagan's surprise. "If Eamon had done wrong, you would still love him, yes? You would not keep him from justice, but he would always be your brother."

After a moment's hesitation, Teagan nods.

"Well, then." Leliana feels a moment's annoyance at her own discomposure, collecting herself before continuing. "It is no different for her. Jowan was dear to her; she would want to know if he had a child."

"No." Alistair's expression is somber. "It's something I need to discuss with Eamon. After that," he pauses, grimacing. "We'll see."

It is as close as Alistair's come to giving Leliana a royal order; she nods assent and folds her hands in her lap, biting back a lingering dissatisfaction.

Teagan offers a rueful smile. "You say that like we're ever actually going to get out of Lothering."

Alistair doesn't smile in return. "We're leaving tomorrow morning. Therrin said you were well enough to sit a horse, at least for a few hours. The guards are already packing supplies." He pushes to his feet, looking tall in the little room. "If there are any preparations to make before we leave for Denerim, you've got the rest of today."

Alistair walks out, still looking troubled, closing the door and leaving Teagan and Leliana behind in surprised silence.


	35. The Looming Destination

Cullen finds that he enjoys traveling. The road is easy and the weather is fair, and walking—even though it makes him tired at first, to walk so long—walking feels good.

Sunlight feels good.

It seems odd to think he'd been unwell, but he has no reason to believe it isn't true. Leliana tells him that he had been and he believes her.

He can count on one hand the things he knows. He knows the Chant. He knows his name. He knows he was a templar. He knows…

That's all he really knows.

There are other things, not-fact things that he doesn't know how he knows. He knows without being told how his armor goes on, the buckles and fastenings working under his fingers automatically. He knows he used to carry a sword. He knows he used to watch… something.

In lieu of remembering, he watches the people around him, picking out patterns and tracing with his mind as they move in circles.

There are two circles, overlapping. At the center of the first is the king, around whom everything moves. His guards circle him like the hands of a clock, a perimeter of flesh and steel. Teagan stays close to him and they talk, frequently and at length, and Leliana circles Teagan as he tires and rests. The dwarf—Oghren, his name is Oghren and he doesn't like being called 'the dwarf'—he sits in the middle, watching everything and tending his axe.

In the other circle are the mages, and Zevran guards them with more than blades.

Therrin and Stephen stay close together on the road, hand-in-hand, and when they look at him they are skittish and wary-eyed like wild animals. They disappear from time to time into the trees, and sometimes then he can feel magic. He can _feel_ magic, and it nags something in his blank almost-memory. He used to know this, how this felt, he used to…do something. What, though?

Carefully, calmly, he follows, considering the feeling of magic. Therrin's, this time, a little nudge at the Veil. Cullen lets himself get pulled along by the whisper-thin lead of familiarity, the tug of something like muscle memory as he gathers his will and pushes.

Immediately he hears her cry of surprise and something knocks him down, and he finds himself on his back pinned to the ground by the massive weight of Dog snarling down into his face, an immovable wall of wet breath and fury.

It is not a mistake Cullen repeats.

Most of the time he simply watches and holds himself apart. He takes his meals when everyone else does but no one speaks to him; he sleeps when they tell him to, on a bedroll stretched across the rocky ground.

In the blackness of night Cullen looks up at the stars and tries to count them, and he wonders as he falls asleep if there is anyone in the world who knows how many there are.

It seems like the sort of thing someone ought to know.

-oOo-

Riding is more tiring than Teagan cares to admit.

Not that he isn't grateful for the chance to ride instead of walk, but weariness drags at him just the same. When they stop at noon for an hour's break he tries to be casual about walking some little ways into the clearing before sinking to the ground, exhausted. His muscles feel jellied, useless, and another time he would have smoldered in irritation at his own inability but now he's simply too weary.

He watches as the little band organizes before he rests his head in his hands and lets his eyes fall closed, just for a moment. He can hear the stomping of horses and the muffled leather-sounds of packs, Alistair complaining about something Teagan can't quite make out, and he wishes privately that they might stop long enough for an actual rest, a chance to collect himself and regain his strength.

The afternoon sun is warm on the top of his head, lulling and mild. He relaxes, and the sounds of the camp fade into a droning buzz in his ears, soft and nonsensical and drifting farther and farther away. Just for a moment, he thinks, just a chance to take what little break he can get…

When he blinks his eyes open again he's lying down, a bundled cloak beneath his head for a pillow and another cloak thrown over him for a cover. A fold of the heavy cloth blocks his face—or rather, most of it—from the midday sun and the rest of the camp. All he can see is grey cloth and Leliana sitting beside him, her hands on either side of her pressed into the new grass for balance as she leans back, relaxed.

Teagan nearly stretches, almost sits up and apologizes for falling asleep in the first place—but the lassitude in his bones sparks a moment's small rebellion, his earlier wish for rest seeming near-miraculously granted, and with what he suspects to be an unbecoming (if private) immaturity Teagan holds himself still behind the cloak and doesn't let on that he's awake.

He lets his eyes fall closed again, lets his mind wander, half-listening as he dozes. There are the sounds of paper packets being opened, rustled, Alistair and Therrin bickering lightly and telling some tale, amused and interrupting each other every other sentence, the metallic clanking of iron pots being moved from somewhere close by to a little distance away.

Leliana shifts beside him—stretching her legs, he guesses, though he can't really see—and her fingers idly begin to tap a merry little beat in place on the grass, all four fingers flexing, conducting a silent song.

Teagan smiles at the oddness of it. He's never known anyone else with a habit quite like it, but he knows what it means. Over the last weeks he's seen Leliana do it perhaps a few-dozen times in their games, when she'd already decided her next seven moves, and she'd sit back to wait for him to scrabble his pieces into some semblance of a defense.

Leliana is bored. For some reason it seems amusing. Moving as little as possible he pulls an arm up from its place at his side, pulling a stiff blade of grass from the ground, and with a precise little jab, pushes it like a tiny spear into her tapping hand.

Leliana freezes immediately, and only her eyes cut over at first. She raises an eyebrow, wry and questioning, a private smile beginning at the side of her mouth, and without giving it away to anyone else that he's awake her fingers flick once and neatly pluck the blade of grass from his hand.

Disarmed.

And this is, perhaps, one of the more ridiculous frivolities he's allowed himself since before the Blight began, but simple enjoyment is so nice a feeling that he doesn't care. He pulls another blade of grass, less stiff than the first, and gallantly hoists it aloft a finger's length above the ground.

He's rewarded when Leliana's smile widens a moment before she suppresses it, her hand loose at her side. With a glimmer of mirth she puts two fingers upright, walking them like a little man across the inches of ground between them in a meandering little display of nonchalance—and with the finger-man, kicks him lightly in the forehead.

Teagan laughs before he can stop himself, but no one hears—Oghren's laughing about something on the other side of camp and Leliana's smothering a grin behind her free hand, not daring to look at Teagan at all.

If this is war, Teagan thinks, it might be time to take prisoners. Leliana's hand is still resting on the grass and she startles a little bit when he takes it in his, pulling it closer under the cloak. Her hand is soft and callused in odd places, and on impulse he presses his lips to the backs of her fingers, slow and silent.

Leliana's smile drains away in an instant, leaving behind something serious, oddly troubled and unguarded. In that moment, the whole thing stops being funny and instead becomes something undoubtedly more.

Teagan considers it noiselessly, turning her hand over in his to trace the lines on her palm, the white thread of an old scar along the inside of her index finger. Leliana makes no move to pull her hand away so he kisses the scar, too, and then the odd crook of her littlest finger where it might have been broken, once.

When he looks back up her eyes are soft and full of feeling, and after a heartbeat's hesitation she moves, light and gently intimate, brushing the pad of her thumb across his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he kisses that, too.

Leliana's breath catches, and something in the sound makes Teagan feel decidedly not tired.

"Is he up yet?" Alistair asks in a stage whisper, loud enough they could probably hear him on the other side of the clearing.

Leliana jumps in surprise, distracted for a moment and glancing back down at Teagan, cheery briskness firmly back in place. "I believe he is now," she chides, recovering. "Alistair, you are not subtle at all."

When Teagan pushes back the fold of the blanket Alistair looks sheepish but not particularly apologetic. "Sorry," Alistair offers anyway. "It's just that we should be on the road soon, if you're able."

Teagan bats back the fold of cloak that falls into his face, pushing to sit upright and feeling much improved from earlier. "I'm able. There's no need to wait on my account." He tries to be as subtle as he can about stretching, trying to ease the stiffness from his back. The king's guards begin readying the horses and packing up the supplies, and Teagan bundles the cloak into a roughly folded mass, glancing over at Leliana. "Is this your doing?"

Leliana's smile is small, but he can feel her amusement anyway as she relieves him of the cloak. "Of course."

Amusement, and something else.

"I was going to ask you," Alistair begins, too casually and glancing back over his shoulder toward his guards. "What's your opinion of the toll on the road through the White River area?"

Teagan blinks once, hesitating before he can recover. "I'm not sure," he admits, scrutinizing Alistair for any sign of what might've brought this on. "I'm not familiar with the situation, I'm afraid." Alistair grimaces faintly. "Why do you ask?" Teagan ventures, more than a little baffled and concerned at Alistair's abrupt shift into seriousness.

"Just something that'll be waiting for me when I get back," Alistair answers with a shrug. "Eamon generally has some insight into these things but he didn't know about the toll. But he's been in Denerim, and you've been out among the people. I was hoping you might know something Eamon didn't."

"I…" Teagan's brain scrambles into action, trying to piece together an answer. He doesn't know the first thing about a toll at White River, but… "I'm not personally acquainted with the specifics of the situation," Teagan begins. Bann Reginalda's steward would know all about it, probably as much as the Bann herself if she hasn't given her opinion already. "But I can think of a few people who would likely have the information you need. I'll write them as soon as we arrive at Denerim, if you wish."

Alistair nods immediately. "That would be great." He hesitates for just a moment. "I don't have as many contacts outside the palace as I'd like. I know names, I mean, but I don't know most of them as people. And certainly not well enough to be able to get at the truth when there's fifteen sides to every story."

Teagan sighs, understanding, and momentarily concerned about Alistair's admission in front of everyone. Cullen included. He frowns, wondering… but no. Cullen is merely examining the petals of a wildflower, and if he hears them at all he gives no sign. "It will come with time," Teagan assures Alistair. "And if you like, once we're in Denerim, I can draw up a list of those contacts who were most helpful during the rebuilding of Redcliffe. They might prove valuable sources of information if you have future inquiries."

"Yes, thanks, I'd like that."

"Provided, of course," Teagan adds lightly, "that Queen Cecily doesn't have all our heads at the city gates. I do hope you've given some thought about what you're going to say to her."

Alistair's face falls, and Teagan almost winces in sympathy, because he wouldn't want to be in Alistair's position for all the gold in Orlais. "I should come up with something, shouldn't I?" Alistair mumbles despairingly.

"It might be wise," Teagan admits. Granted, he only knows a very little about the queen at all, but Alistair's absence could hardly have been more poorly planned or executed.

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence as Alistair considers it glumly, then glances over his shoulder again at his waiting guards. "There's no way around it, I guess," he manages, standing and offering Teagan a hand, helping him to his feet with Leliana's aid. "Denerim isn't going to wait."

-oOo-

Dog likes traveling. The world is wide open and there are creatures everywhere, little fast things that dart through the underbrush and sprint away as he gives chase. He bounds after rabbits and buries his nose in their burrows, snuffling in their scents.

Stephen wouldn't like it, Therrin had said, so Dog only chases and doesn't kill, and when he lopes back with his tail wagging and his nose dirty she ruffles his ears and tells him what a good dog he is. He likes it when she tells him he is a good dog.

They don't go very far—Teagan can't sit on a horse very long, even though the horses are blinking, placid things and don't complain—and so there is time in the hours they are resting, time to run along the road, time for fetch, time to flop down in a patch of sunshine and doze.

Dog wakes himself up snoring once, which makes Stephen laugh and laugh.

During the day he is everywhere. He begs scraps from Oghren, and plays fetch with Zevran even though Zevran doesn't throw the stick right at all, and when Dog informs him of this and tells him he should ask Therrin for throwing lessons Zevran gets irritated. Teagan sits a lot, and for a long time, and when he's resting sometimes he will smile and Dog will creep over on his belly, tail wagging, and Teagan will pet him and Dog will sigh with happiness.

It isn't always so happy.

His human is quiet. Cullen has gone silent and so there is a lot of not-talking between them, and at night Dog huddles close to Therrin in her tent and holds still while she clutches at his fur and takes one breath at a time and doesn't cry.

He isn't shouting, Dog reminds her. He isn't mad. She nods absently against his ribs, and in the days he starts walking closer so that her hand can fall to his head out of habit, and then she'll pet him and be less sad, a little.

They are going to Denerim, to the city, and he remembers the city and he likes it because it is full of interesting things and people to smell, and children who run and play and grown people who sell things like bones.

Therrin and Leliana are talking, and they will probably go in-and-out of shops in the city and take all day, but Dog doesn't mind because it always means bits of good things to eat, after. He can see the city down the road, big and getting bigger, and he butts his head up under Leliana's hand so that she can scratch his ears.

"You are excited to go back to Denerim, yes?" she asks, smiling and oh! scratching his ears just right, and he wags his tail in response. Leliana laughs, glancing back over her shoulder. "Unlike poor Alistair. He is dragging his heels just a little, I think."

Therrin looks over, skeptical. "Alistair? Why?"

Leliana steps around a fallen branch. "Can you imagine the welcome waiting for him? After he ran away to save your skin, with no word to the queen?" She clicks her tongue in gentle disapproval. "He will be in trouble, I think. And for good reason."

Therrin looks concerned. "What do you mean?"

Leliana gives a little laugh. "Think of Queen Cecily. All this time waiting for Alistair to return, and every hour must seem very long. People will talk, and she will know this. There will be rumors about you and Alistair, and why he left. It must be very embarrassing for the Queen."

"Oh." Therrin kicks at the dust on the road, frowning and biting her lip. "But he didn't… how stupid."

Leliana stops scratching and Dog trots behind her to Therrin, who strokes his head automatically.

"Well," Leliana considers. "Not stupid, exactly. What's she to think, really?" They walk a few steps in silence. "You will want to be careful, Amell. Queen Cecily was born to politics. Do try to be tactful for once, yes?"

Therrin's mouth twists up, wryly. "I'll try." She looks over a moment, askance. "You're in an awfully good mood."

Leliana smells happy—and Dog pants in joy, because he likes it when Leliana is happy—but she only flutters her lashes at Therrin, smiling sweetly. "Me? I am happy to be back to Denerim, and civilization, and sleeping indoors. Oh! And we'll need to go shopping. You won't want to go to Amaranthine looking as you do," Leliana chides briskly. "You will need new clothes. And shoes. We can go tomorrow."

Therrin looks skeptical. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes." Leliana grins, dimpling. "We're pressing on through the afternoon. Alistair says we should be in Denerim by nightfall."

"Oh," Therrin says, and her hand tightens in the fur on Dog's neck. She smells worried, and mouse-ish like disappearing, and he licks her arm until she is a little happier and a little bit less sad.


	36. The Dutiful Brother

_We'll make Denerim by nightfall_, Leliana had told Therrin, but it hadn't quite worked out that way. In the afternoon the skies had darkened and the wind had picked up; half an hour later rain had started pouring down in heavy sheets and showed no sign of stopping.

At the city gates they're greeted by dripping, bleary-eyed guards who jerk to attention at the sight of the king, falling in line to escort him to the palace.

At the front of the pack Therrin drags her dripping hair out of her eyes and tries not to stumble over the hem of the least filthy robe she owns, holding to Stephen's hand and squinting into the rain. There's so much noise—from raindrops hitting the rooftops, from the creaking and clanking of the many armored men behind her, from the horse's hooves clopping loudly on the stone of the street—that she doesn't hear Oghren until he's right beside her, settling into an even pace and saying nothing.

It's too loud for conversation anyway; still, the burly shape of him beside her is heartening.

Alistair looks as though he'd rather face the Archdemon again than go to the palace. But there's no help for it and nowhere else to go; the guards shepherd the little band in that direction and the palace looms larger and larger, and then finally they get ushered inside. The silence of the palace hall seems abrupt and weighty in comparison, but it only lasts a moment before the place starts to bustle and hum with activity.

Alistair lets out a heavy breath. "Right." He glances around the palace hall, looking daunted and ill at ease. "So… this way? I guess. Let's keep it down."

Oghren chuckles to himself, and when they all begin to move again he trudges along beside Therrin. "You lost, y'know."

She frowns. "Excuse me?"

"The bet." Oghren jerks his head back to where Teagan and Leliana are walking, his arm in hers for balance.

"That isn't fair," Therrin protests, near-tripping over her robe. "He was unconscious."

Oghren grins. "Yeah, well, maybe you should've thought of that before."

"Thought of what would happen if he was injured and we had to stay in Lothering forever? You can't be serious."

Oghren only laughs, ignoring Alistair's pointed frown.

"Fine," Therrin says, resigned but beginning to warm to the idea. "I'll buy." Come to think, a drink sounds like a really good idea. "The Pearl?"

Oghren snorts. "Where else?"

"What's a pearl?" Stephen pipes up, blond hair drying and fluffing up in patches.

Therrin scrambles for an explanation appropriate for a small child. "I'll tell you later."

"Okay," Stephen says, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

"Down this…?" Therrin asks, pointing at a corner, and at Alistair's nod she heads that way. Sweet Andraste it'll be good to get warm and dry, to sleep in an actual bed, to take a real bath and not have to make do with a quick scrub-down in a bucket of river-water. Perhaps Alistair hadn't been too far off the mark. Some little core of Therrin's Tower-raised sensibilities rejoices at the thought of being properly indoors again, out of the weather and off the ground. Being battle-bloodied is all well and good and a different kind of grimy entirely; at the moment Therrin feels rather like a muddy, half-drowned sparrow.

Her robe is heavy with rain and clings like a second skin, and the hem of it drags across the stone floor trailing streaks of water, and then Stephen steps too close as they round the corner and the edge of her robe catches on his shoe.

She doesn't quite stop in time to keep herself toppling over and lands almost flat on her face on the floor. She reels for a moment, wrists aching from the shock of the fall,  and freezes when she hears Alistair's surprised exclamation: "Cecily!"

Therrin looks at the ground in front of her and she sees feet in a pair of embroidered silk slippers, and as her gaze inches higher dread sinks deeper into her belly. It might have been easier or less awkward if the queen was plain or unassuming but no, Queen Cecily is easily the most beautiful woman Therrin has ever laid eyes on. Her eyes are intelligent and very green and golden hair cascades over her shoulders, and if she looks a bit tired and unhappy it doesn't do much to mitigate her beauty at all.

She is also, Therrin notes, very, _very_ angry.

_The Maker hates me_, Therrin decides, and Stephen tugs at her arm worriedly with a cry of "Mother!" that only makes Therrin's stomach wobble, but then he gives up and tugs on Alistair instead.

It's an effort to drag herself upright and she barely hears Alistair. He's stammering, actually stammering, which is terrible. The whole thing is terrible, and only getting worse, and Stephen manages to drag Alistair over beside Therrin which doesn't help. Cecily takes one look at Stephen, still holding Alistair by the arm, and then a quick, cutting glance from Alistair to Therrin, and her gaze goes utterly cold. "How good of you to finally return to Denerim, Your Majesty," she says, level and so formal Alistair winces.

"Cecily," Alistair manages, sounding wounded and Therrin's thoughts pinwheel too quickly for good sense to catch up. This is going to go downhill and fast, and if you can't win, you change the rules.

"May I speak to you in private?" Therrin asks flatly, taking a step toward the queen and only at the last moment remembering, "Your Majesty."

It shuts Alistair up at least, and there—good! If the queen's going to glare and point her anger at a target it might as well be Therrin. Queen Cecily regards her for a long, piercingly uncertain moment, and Therrin can practically hear Teagan's wince at her breach of propriety, can practically feel Alistair's mind click and whir back into action.

Cecily nods, curt and wary, and without a word gathers up the skirt of her dress and sweeps away. Leaving everyone but Dog behind Therrin follows, trying not to feel as though she's walking into a dragon's den.

-oOo-

The palace is very big.

Cullen follows along obediently, eyeing the high ceilings and tapestries, hanging near the back of the group and going where he's told. He's stiff and tired from walking all day in armor that doesn't fit. Didn't he have armor that fit before? It had been heavier, he thinks; this doesn't feel like something he would wear.

He has never been inside the palace before (or at least he doesn't think so), but he tries not to gawk, and follows into the parlor when he's told.

The king paces like a caged animal, darting glances at the door and looking agitated. "Think they've killed each other yet?"

"No," Leliana says primly. "You just assume they are talking about you. Not everything is about you, yes?"

The king is not amused.

The quiet that follows is uncomfortable, and only disturbed now and again by palace staff bustling in to set out trays of food, until Arl Eamon arrives, sleep-creased and worn-looking. There is conversation between them, quick and low, and most of it washes over Cullen because everyone treats him as though he isn't here.

He doesn't know what it all means, _rumors_ and _Landsmeet_, but he follows along well enough to discern that this Arl Eamon is the king's right hand man, and that things had not gone smoothly while they'd been on the road. The king looks tired, but Arl Eamon doesn't seem to notice. He only stops talking when Therrin comes back, lingering in the doorway with Dog.

"Where's Cecily?" Alistair asks worriedly, glancing out into the empty hallway.

"Resting, I expect." Therrin scratches at Dog's ears, expression cool. "It's the middle of the night. Arl Eamon."

"Warden."

Cullen watches them with interest. But Alistair declares that it's too late to attempt to get anything done and calls for a servant to ready some rooms, and Arl Eamon suggests that the palace staff will have more than enough to see to at the king's return without accommodating a half-dozen unexpected guests, and offers lodgings at his own estate.

"Well—yes, alright," the king says at last, weary and distracted.

"Excellent," Arl Eamon answers. "My estate's nearly as secure as the palace; your friends will be quite safe. And besides," he continues, giving Teagan a look, "My brother and I have business to discuss."

"Of course," Alistair says, and that seems to decide that. Therrin scoops Stephen's sleeping form into her arms and Leliana helps Teagan to his feet, and they all follow Arl Eamon back down the long hallways.

Cullen trails along dutifully, trying to stay out of the way, but Therrin struggles a little with Stephen's weight and the length of his limbs, and stops twice to shift him against her shoulder. "Do you want me to carry him?" Cullen offers.

Therrin seems surprised for a second before she loses her expression and just looks careful. "No. I have him. Thank you, Cullen."

Cullen nods. An echo of memory pushes up in his mind like a sprout through soil, of carrying… something. Everything. Of walking up stairs carrying… he can't remember.

The thought fades to ashes, and anyway it doesn't fit into anything Cullen knows at all. No one else seems to have noticed anything amiss so he keeps quiet, following Arl Eamon out into the dismal night.

-oOo-

The temptation to hide is strong. It is entirely unkingly, Alistair's pretty sure, because kings aren't supposed to want to go hide in the larder and eat cheese and bread and jam until morning, and then hope that by sunrise their queens will be perfectly content and not furious at all.

If only it were that simple. But it isn't, and while the palace is large, Alistair suspects he could only manage to stay out of sight for a day or two, hiding in bundles of laundry and in barrels in the stables. Really it's just better in the scheme of things to go get it over with, to march in and tell Cecily that there are simply king things he has to take care of sometimes and so she'll just have to get used to it. And then he'll have to run very, _very_ fast, because she's going to give him her Glare of Death and make him feel two feet tall. Why had he signed up for this again?

Oh. Right. He _hadn't._

But there's nothing for it and the hallways seem very short all of a sudden, and he only hesitates in front of Cecily's door for a moment because trying to collect himself seems an impossible task.

"Come in," she calls when he knocks.

How had he forgotten how pretty she is? It had been bad enough to think of it those nights alone in his tent on the road, but seeing her brushing out her hair at her vanity is enough to make his mouth go dry and his hands feel all clumsy, like she belongs here and he doesn't, like this is some joke the Maker's playing and the punchline will come at any second.

"Hello, Cecily," he manages.

She arches her eyebrows. "Alistair."

The conversation he'd been half-frantically planning in his head dies to silence. _So what were you and Therrin talking_ _about?_ seems pathetic, though he'd really like to know. _Sorry for not telling you I was going to go rescue my ex _seems stupid. Standing here in silence is not the bravest thing in the world but it seems to be the safest so Alistair does that.

Cecily regards him a moment. "Perhaps you might close the door?"

Alistair does, hoping that it's progress because she's not biting his head off. Or maybe she'd just wanted to ream him out in private.

Sod it all, he's the king, isn't he? "I'm sorry I left without saying anything," he blurts out, and she looks surprised but doesn't argue. "I should've told you before I left. I know it must've looked bad so I hope you didn't think there was anything inappropriate going on because there wasn't," Alistair manages, sick at heart and really hoping she believes him. "I might be an idiot sometimes, but I'm your idiot. You're stuck with me."

Cecily looks surprised for a moment, and stricken like she might cry, but the moment passes and she doesn't (and he's grateful, because he doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he was ass enough to make her cry). "Alistair."

He feels as though he's being dangled above some yawning chasm on a tiny little thread, waiting for it to snap. "Yes?"

Cecily begins to say something and stops, setting aside her hairbrush and getting to her feet. "It's very late." Alistair nods helpless agreement, waiting and wondering what he's supposed to say. Cecily looks him top to toe and back again. "I'm going to bed."

Alistair nods again. "I… yes. I'll go, then."

Cecily's pretty face goes the littlest bit impatient. "Or you could stay."

He hesitates. It isn't what he expected at all, but he's not idiot enough to say no. There's still a chance she's got a dagger under her pillow because Cecily is smart and crafty and good at bluffing out nobles but no, she wouldn't kill him in bed, would she? No. Probably not. It would make a mess.

Alistair struggles out of his armor and dirty clothes and scrubs down at the basin, a little impressed at the amount of dirt that settles at the bottom of the bowl. He blows out the lamp and creeps into bed, trying to be very careful not to touch her because it seems incredibly presumptuous. He can hear her turn over in the dark as his eyes start to adjust, and something about the dimness of the room makes it easier to confess, "I missed you."

Cecily props herself up on an elbow. "Did you?"

"Yes," Alistair answers immediately, grateful to get it off his chest. "More than I thought I would. It was fun for a day or two to get away from the whole king thing but without you it wasn't the same." He hesitates, groping for the right words. "I wished you were there." Before he'd left they'd been getting to be friends, sort of, even if it all still seemed backwards to him because they slept together first and tried to get to know each other after. Not that he was complaining, but…

He isn't going to forgive himself if he's broken that. He was just starting to get used to all this, just starting to feel really content.

Cecily settles back onto her pillow. "I worried about you," she admits.

Something swells in Alistair's chest. "You did?"

"Of course I did."

He's never had someone to worry over if he came back or not. The thought of it makes him feel at once like soaring and then even stupider for leaving in the first place. "I worried about _you_," he admits, leaving off the part where he'd mostly been worried that she was going to kill him. "How are you? How's the…" he waves a hand at her stomach and realizes that she probably can't see it. "How's the baby?"

It hits him at odd moments that he's going to be a father; this is one of them. Under the little curve of Cecily's waist is his child, and it makes his heart ache to think about.

"We're well enough," she answers, quiet and sounding sleepy. "I've been sick, still. Therrin left a few ideas written down, things she said might help."

"So _that's_ what you talked about," he blurts immediately, and winces when Cecily laughs. Being perfectly transparent has to be one of the worst possible qualities in a king, but Cecily sounds genuinely amused so he can't be too embarrassed.

"Among other things," she says. "She told me about the business at the Tower, and explained how she and her young man wouldn't have made it out alive if not for you. And her little boy," she adds, pensive. "I wondered if he was yours, at first."

Alistair blinks. "Mine?"

"You never spoke about your time in templar training," Cecily points out reasonably. "You could've… been involved with her back then. Already had an heir. I didn't know. I do now," she continues because Alistair is spluttering out a protest. "Therrin seemed to think it was funny."

"Mages have very strange senses of humor," Alistair says, trying to recover.

"Mmm," Cecily agrees. "But she did describe how you charged in to save the day. Very heroic." She still sounds amused. "I wish I'd seen it."

"I wish you would've too," Alistair says immediately, bizarrely grateful to Therrin. No, absolutely, he'd never doubted her for a second. He knew she'd come through.

"Mmm," Cecily hums again, sleepy and sounding relaxed. "Maybe you can tell me about it in the morning."

Morning, yes, because sleep is a good idea and the days of travel are catching up to him all at once. Even so, Alistair lies awake in the dark for a while as the sound of Cecily's breathing evens out. Some minutes later she rolls over in her sleep and presses near him for warmth, and very carefully Alistair puts an arm around his wife and relaxes, glad to be home.

-oOo-

After the trials of being on the road, Teagan is more relieved than he could say to be back in Denerim. Eamon's estate is comfortable and familiar and the general niceties of city life are a welcome change from the difficulties of camping, Once the door is shut behind him he sighs deeply, grateful for the quiet, for a room of his own where he can sleep in private.

He's nearly too tired for it but the servants are quick to see to his needs—a small meal of simple fare quiets the growling in his belly, and scrubbing the grime from his skin in the nearly too-hot bath leaves him feeling much improved. He leans his neck back on the stone and sighs, careful not to doze.

Eamon's remark at the palace had been easy enough to figure out at least. It was almost certainly regarding Therrin; once he explains the situation and listens to Eamon it'll be over.

But the conversation to come is eclipsed by the comfort of the bath, steaming invitingly, and though dawn is only a few hours away Teagan sinks deeper into the hot water with a sigh.

The estate is very quiet. During the day it's not the most raucous of estates; tonight it's nearly silent, and if there are servants still bustling through the halls they're as quiet as mice. He wonders idly if Leliana is still awake. She could be chatting with Therrin or could already have taken refuge in bed, she could be four rooms away, relaxing in a bath of her own.

That is a particularly pleasant thought… her eyes closed and cheeks flushed, skin warm from the water and hair tousled and damp…

He jerks awake.

The bathwater is tepid and he doesn't know how long he's been asleep but being found dead in the morning drowned in his bath is a particularly poor way to be remembered. Teagan drags himself out of the water and dries, and doesn't even last a full minute in bed before he gives over to sleep.

The next morning is beautiful, but when he finds Eamon in the sunroom, the beauty of the day looks to be the last thing on his mind. "You don't look quite well," he says. "Shall I arrange for a healer to see you today?"

"It isn't necessary," Teagan answers. "But thank you. I'm very nearly back to normal, and glad to be back in Denerim."

Eamon doesn't respond for a moment, looking pensively out the window. "I'd heard a rumor you proposed to the Warden," Eamon says at last, not taking a seat.

Teagan shrugs, loosening his shoulders. "The rumor was true, in this case. I did ask Therrin to marry me. She accepted." The look on Eamon's face is nearly enough to let some roguish part of Teagan's mind just let the statement hang… but no. "The engagement's been broken off amicably since then, Eamon, you needn't look so horrified."

Eamon doesn't look amused. "This is not a laughing matter. I had hoped you would have chosen to take our conversation and your duty to Redcliffe more seriously."

It takes the wind from Teagan's sails in an instant, all humor withering to dust. "Of course I do."

Eamon looks slightly mollified, rubbing tiredly at his jaw and looking years older than he had the last time Teagan had seen him. "Perhaps I'd been expecting too much. To set such a burden on your shoulders with so little warning… I may have misjudged the matter."

Teagan relaxes a bit, waiting and hopeful.

"Given that you're hardly ever in Denerim to meet someone suitable, I've taken some steps," Eamon continues. "Have you ever met Justinia, Arl Wulff's daughter?"

A cold prickle of foreboding begins in Teagan's mind. "No, I don't believe we've met," he answers carefully. "Should I know her?"

"She's well-suited for you, I believe," Eamon continues thoughtfully, pacing away from the window. "Young. Well-born. Devout, and from what Wulff's said, a good daughter."

Teagan blinks, hardly believing his ears. "Eamon, you aren't suggesting…"

"Suggesting? No." He settles into the chair across from Teagan, an expression of tired fondness on his face. "It's all arranged, Teagan; you needn't worry. It's as good a match as we can find—a better match than I'd hoped for at first, in all honesty." Eamon offers a smile. "I suppose I should've expected you might need a bit of help settling down. You were ever a handful as a child. But from what I've seen of her, I believe you'll get on well together."

Teagan feels sick.

Eamon misreads his expression. "Don't worry about it. The details are being worked out; all you have to do is be there. With any luck, you'll be married and headed back to Redcliffe in a fortnight."

_Two weeks_, Teagan thinks, nauseated and trapped in the suddenly airless room. To someone he's never so much as seen before, for the good of his duty and his family. In two weeks. "That seems a bit sudden, doesn't it?" Teagan protests faintly. "After all, we've never met…" Words fail him.

"Alistair never met Cecily before they married," Eamon points out mildly. "Though I'd expect better of you than to show up half an hour late for your own wedding and smelling of horse." He considers a moment, rubbing a forefinger absently at the leather of the chair. "They do seem genuinely happy. I've every hope you find the same happiness with Justinia." He smiles again, fondly. "It's about time you had someone to take care of you, Teagan. You're not a boy anymore. I won't always be around to look after you."

"Eamon, _don't_ say that."

"It's true enough. And either way, Redcliffe and Denerim aren't exactly neighboring towns. If I'm to stay in Denerim to aid Alistair, it will ease my mind to know you've settled down. I'm only trying to see to your happiness, Teagan," Eamon continues. "I've no illusions that you've been happy rebuilding the arling, and it isn't the sort of burden that should be borne alone."

There seems nothing Teagan can say to that, all response turned to ashes in his mouth at the sudden weight of duty.

_Two weeks._

"Excuse me, Eamon," Teagan manages before he pushes to his feet. He leaves the room and his brother behind him but finds himself unable to shake the sense of finality rushing up to take him.

 

* * *

Surprise!Bonus Author's Note: Queen Cecily, though it hasn't been explicitly stated in the text yet, is a Cousland. (As in, Bryce and Eleanor's youngest, and Fergus' little sister.) It isn't important now but it will become so later.


	37. The King's Counsel

Teagan walks through the rest of the morning in a daze, head muddled at the specter of Eamon's words. In the absence of comfort or clarity he goes through the motions, numb, and he knows he must've spoken the right words and arranged the right papers (though he can hardly remember it) or else he wouldn't be here, sitting in a chair in the palace and waiting for an audience with Alistair.

He turns the envelope over in his hands—the contacts, he recalls dully, for the White River road situation—and only belatedly looks up when he's called, following dutifully as he's ushered into what must be Alistair's office.

Alistair has an office. It still seems the faintest bit absurd. Somewhere in Teagan's brain Alistair will be perpetually ten years old and dirty. The images in his mind don't line up quite properly with the sight of the man at the desk in front of him.

It truly is an impressive desk.

Alistair flashes him a quick smile, which fades immediately at the sight of him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you," Teagan answers, sitting gratefully when Alistair waves him into a chair. "I have the information we'd discussed some days ago, about the toll on the White River road." Though now that he thinks of it, he could've sent a messenger or delivered it to an underling.

Alistair frowns, concerned. "You don't look well. Do you want me to call for a healer? Is Therrin still at Eamon's estate? I can have someone fetch her."

Teagan almost winces at the mention of his brother and again at the thought of bringing Therrin in, now. "No, thank you, Alistair. Really, there's no trouble." He straightens in the chair. "How are you? I understand you were less than certain about your welcome, but you seem…" There's a small red mark on Alistair's neck, only half-hidden by his collar; Alistair tugs up the cloth self-consciously. "Well enough," Teagan finishes mildly.

Which is, apparently, an understatement.

An unreasonable jealousy begins to stir at the back of Teagan's mind at the idea that it could be so easy for some but not for him. Teagan opens his mouth to speak and thinks better of it, but Alistair had been so open while traveling, and Teagan doesn't know anyone else who'd gone through with an arranged marriage he could speak to. The specter of two weeks already ticking away pushes him to action. "Might I be so bold as to ask you a very personal question?"

At worst, he thinks, Alistair could tell him no.

Alistair spares a glance for the closed door, and leans back in his chair with a frown. "Of course. What's on your mind?"

There's the strange sense of overlap again, Alistair the king, Alistair the boy, Alistair the nearly-friend. But Teagan doesn't quite know how best to speak to him or what to say, and struggles for the right words. Finally, he settles on, "You never met the Queen before you married."

It isn't the question; Alistair nods for him to go on.

Teagan hesitates again, uncomfortable with this level of candor. "May I ask what it was like, marrying a stranger while being… while having an attachment to someone else?"

All trace of Alistair's normal good humor fades in an instant, replaced with something pensive, faraway.

"You and the Queen seem genuinely content, from what little I've gathered," Teagan ventures, hoping to clarify, hoping he hasn't intruded too far or been unforgivably rude. "How difficult was it to put your earlier attachment behind you?"

Alistair doesn't answer immediately, leaning back in his chair and absently rubbing his chin with one hand. Absurdly, all Teagan can think for a moment is that he's clean-shaven again, and what happened to the beard making him look older? But Alistair frowns slightly, a thoughtful cast to his expression as though he's choosing his words carefully. "Where's this coming from?"

It was foolish not to expect to have to explain, but the words catch in Teagan's throat and seem hard to force out. "I've told you of Eamon's expectations for the future of Redcliffe."

Alistair nods briefly.

Teagan takes a steadying breath, wishing momentarily that he hadn't asked. "Since I haven't made any arrangements of my own, Eamon took it upon himself to make arrangements on my behalf. To Arl Wulff's daughter, Justinia."

Alistair sits forward. "What about Leliana?"

Teagan can't help but blink a moment in shock. "Leliana?"

"Well, yes," Alistair retorts immediately, looking half-incredulous. "It looked like things were heading that way. Neither of you seemed like you were trying to hide anything as far back as the Circle Tower. Oghren and Therrin were taking bets on it, and if _Therrin_ picked up on it then you know you were being pretty damned obvious."

It's too much to filter through at once; Teagan blinks twice, quickly, trying to sort it all out. "Bets?" He tries in vain to salvage some scrap of poise.

"Why didn't you just tell Eamon you've got it handled?" Alistair asks, frowning. "Or that you were getting around to it? Unless you didn't want to," he barrels on, giving Teagan a look he can't interpret. "In which case, you should know, Leliana is a friend. I owe her my life a few times over, and Maker knows she's just a bit loony, but if you've been leading her on halfway across Ferelden just for a lark—"

"No, of course not," Teagan answers, feeling a bit dizzy and more than a bit confused. "But all feelings aside, I have a duty to Redcliffe…" He stops, realization creeping in. "Are you saying you'd approve? If I married Leliana?"

"Yes!" Alistair says immediately, as though Teagan's been very thick-headed. "Why wouldn't I?"

Reasons—or what he'd thought were reasons—shimmer like soap bubbles, popping one by one and not leaving much of anything behind. Teagan struggles for words. "Eamon wanted the new arlessa to be versed in politics, to be a woman who could help run—" At Alistair's disbelieving noise, Teagan stops. "What is it?"

"I'd think years as an Orlesian bard count for being pretty well-versed in politics," Alistair says, a half-grin on his face at some apparent absurdity and wholly unaware that everything in Teagan's mind has come to a screeching halt. "And I can see how Eamon might not think much of her at the moment, but trust me, Leliana's sharper than she lets on. He'll come around. And anyway, most of the nobles' daughters I've met haven't given two figs for politics; it's all skirt-things and hair-ribbons." Alistair makes a face.

Teagan hardly sees him. An Orlesian… "Leliana's a…" Teagan swallows, reeling… "A bard?"

Alistair freezes. "You didn't know?"

"No," Teagan admits hollowly.

"Oh." Alistair's mouth shuts. "Well."

Teagan scrambles to make sense of it, but Alistair's already off and talking again. "You didn't really think she was just a Chantry sister all this time, did you? I mean," he frowns, making a grasping gesture. "We put together an army. It wasn't all basket-weavers and storytellers, you know; Leliana's probably killed thousands of darkspawn."

There's an uncomfortable silence, then, in which Alistair looks at Teagan as though he isn't quite as bright as Alistair had always thought. Teagan, for his part, sits quietly, rifling through his memories of Leliana and picking out instances—little things he'd hardly noticed at the time, but now against the backdrop of a past as a bard, they make sense.

"Of course," Alistair begins again, contemplative. "You know I'm not going to rush you into anything one way or another. Though you haven't said you didn't want to get married at all. You could always marry Arl… Wulff, was it? His daughter, if you wanted to. But if it's a matter of you wanting to marry Leliana instead," he continues, dragging it out slightly, giving it weight and significance enough that Teagan looks up. "Well," Alistair finishes, satisfied. "Then you'd have my support."

Teagan's mind is still careening from one new thought to another, but at the authority in Alistair's voice the information coalesces into something manageable. Alistair's support. The _king's_ support.

A bard, he thinks. Why hadn't he known? He can see it; marrying Leliana. It holds far more appeal than the idea of marrying for its own sake. Eamon had married for love, and politics be damned. And here he might have a chance for something close, something more, and with Alistair to back him up even Eamon couldn't protest.

"Thank you, Alistair," he manages, feeling a bit dazed. He wonders vaguely if this is an effect of the nature of their conversation or of speaking to Alistair in general, because it's a bit like being knocked down by a very friendly dog.

Alistair grins, wide and pleased, and waves him out.

Teagan is halfway to the palace doors before he remembers that he still has the White River envelope in his hand, and so has to backtrack to deliver it and then try to keep from breaking into a run on the way back, because all of Denerim stretches before him and Teagan can't make it back to his brother's estate fast enough.

-oOo-

Cullen isn't quite sure what to do with himself.

When he had opened his eyes he'd been alone, unguarded in the silent room and momentarily unsure of where he was. It took a moment for memory to filter back in, that this is a guest bedroom, this is Arl Eamon's estate, this is Denerim.

The ghost of a headache nags at the back of his skull as he pulls on his cleanest shirt and his boots. When he bends over the basin to wash his face his reflection in the mirror surprises him, just a little. He looks drawn and grey, thinner than he'd been…

Before.

_(At the Tower.)_

The thought makes him stop mid-motion, freezing in place as the water in his cupped hands trickles away.

The Tower.

Cullen mulls over the memory, feeling out the shape of it in his mouth like a foreign word, pondering the mental impression of grey stone and steel as something nudges itself into place in the back of his mind. But there's no one around to ask, no one to speak to about the odd feeling of dangling almost-theres, and so Cullen washes and heads out into the hallways in search of company.

He doesn't find it. The estate seems empty except for servants who scuttle by him without a thought, intent on their duties and disappearing around corners and into private rooms. There isn't anyone he recognizes in any of the common rooms and Cullen wonders for a few minutes if he ought to go back to the guest room and wait for someone to retrieve him. The thought is unexpectedly annoying, like a burr against his skin. He isn't a child and he isn't helpless; he doesn't have to sit like a dog on a rope and wait for someone to come claim him.

Still. There are no signs of Zevran or Leliana or Therrin, and though Cullen thinks he hears Teagan once the voice seems to drift from behind a closed door in a guarded hallway.

Deflated, Cullen wanders to the front door of the estate, ignoring the looks of mild interest the guards give him. He tries to determine whether or not he wants to go out into the city, but he has no money and wouldn't know where he was. Instead, he wanders into the little library at the side of the foyer, and stops, frowning. The tug of near-memory coaxes at something else in his mind, tantalizingly close but damnably just out of reach.

The bookcases are too short.

He doesn't know where the thought comes from—or what the proper size for a bookcase is in the first place—but he's oddly sure that bookcases are supposed to be taller than this, reaching up for the ceiling with ladders that go to the top and the mage…

The headache throbs dully behind his eyes, a lingering pain. Hadn't there been someone on top of the bookcases?

_Get down from there, you'll fall._

She _(who?)_ hadn't come down, not then. The scrap of memory is maddening in its incompletion. Cullen leans against the doorframe, desperately trying to follow the thought back to its origin, but it slips away into the fog of his brain, rootless and drifting and providing no answers at all.

He sinks into a chair, disturbed, propping his elbows on the reading table and raking his hands through his hair. The feeling of _more_ seems so close, if he could just… just…

Cullen marshals his concentration and tries, as hard as he can, to part the veils pressing in at his mind, cold and shadowy and thick. It isn't any use; his headache sharpens a moment and eases, and leaves him with no more answers now than he had before.

There is a book open on the table in front of him. He flips through the pages half-heartedly, hardly seeing them, utterly disinterested in Orlesian history. On impulse he pulls over another, and this one looks only barely more captivating but there are drawings, at least, the flora of Ferelden illustrated in exquisite detail, and his eyes skim over the pages in leaps to take it in. Blood lotus, with its knobbled roots and thick-veined leaves, bearweed, clustering in bunches at the bases of oaks and useful against the stings of rashvine, Ellara's-folly with poisonous winterberries and white flowers.

White…

_(And the scholar went to a flower-seller in the market and brought back a seed of climbing starflower.)_

Cullen's mind jerks to a halt.

He… he knows that story. He'd been very small and trailing after the sister and she'd told it as she'd swept, and Cullen had jumped over the little piles of dirt as she'd scooted them toward the door. As a child he'd imagined the sorcerer as a wicked-looking man with a long black beard, a sinister laugh and spindly hands. And he'd been the scholar, patient and brave (and never mind that he could hardly sit through breakfast then without squirming, in his imagination he'd waited the ten years without complaint).

"There you are," Therrin says at the sight of him, sounding aggrieved. "I was looking for y—"

"You were the princess," Cullen says distantly, remembrance trickling up from beneath like water into the bed of a dry lake, filling in the cracks in his memories.

Therrin stops, wary in an instant. "Excuse me?"

"In the story," Cullen explains, seizing upon the unfurling thread of recognition and following it back into the recesses of his mind like a lifeline. "I used to… to read. Over your shoulder," he continues, the images in his mind settling into something like familiarity. "Standing guard so long at a time was boring, but you… you read, and I read over your shoulder and…" He frowns, an aching loss spiking through him for a moment. When he looks again at Therrin she's stunned, frozen in place.

He realizes that it can't have made much sense so he tries to explain, "There was the story, of the princess in the Tower, and I used to… to daydream, sometimes." He frowns down at the book on the table as though it's led him astray. But no, it isn't important. "It seems stupid now, but I was… young." Very young, he remembers as fragments of memory realign, pushing together into something almost whole. The Tower had been huge and foreign and a little frightening. Keeping watch had been incredibly dull when he hadn't been busy being quietly terrified by all of the mages and the ever-lurking prospect of demons.

"I was going to save you," he continues on, and it still doesn't make much sense. His hands grip the edge of the table as if he could brace himself but he can't. "From… I don't…"

"Cullen." Therrin is there behind his chair in a whisper of robes, hesitating and worried and just out of reach.

_Because you tried to kill her twice_, his mind supplies helpfully. He can't remember either instance, even though he tries. Alistair had told him, and there's something… something about the sun, and walking, but it slips from his grasp as soon as it flits across the forefront of his memory and is gone before he can pin it down.

It's a surprise when she steps closer and puts her hand on his shoulder, tentative and uneasy but there. Cullen reaches up and takes her hand, and she doesn't pull away. He laces his fingers between hers and studies them as though they might hold the answers his memory so lacks. "I was in love with you," he says, muted and wondering, because feelings are drifting back along with the images, the memory of an odd, anticipatory joy somehow wrapped up with libraries and Therrin, years-old and at the same time new again in his mind.

She bursts into tears, sounding unaccountably noisy and startling him enough to shake him from his reverie, and though he doesn't know quite what to do he thinks he ought to do something. In the quiet of the little library he holds her hand in an awkward attempt to comfort her and he hopes worriedly he hasn't said something wrong.


	38. The Silenced Bard

The walk between the palace and Eamon's estate had never felt so long before. Teagan's steps haven't slowed at all since he'd left Alistair's office, but the afternoon throng of the Market District forces him to check his pace and pay attention instead of hurtling along blindly.

The need to talk to Leliana is an insistent press in his brain and he tries to stifle his own impatience as he weaves his way through the crowd. He isn't sure how to bring it up. _So Alistair told me you were a bard _seems a terrible way to begin the conversation, or any conversation. He scrambles for the right words, and realizes, feeling terribly thick, that he's already proposed in front of Leliana once.

To someone else.

In the middle of the Market District he stops, dazed and suddenly awkward a moment before resolve flashes through in his brain. It will be better this time. Last time was out of necessity and a vague, careening shock; this time is for something far more than convenience or duty. Teagan shakes himself from his reverie, and sets off to prowl the market, hunting for flowers.

The pickings are slim. The plant-seller informs him that it's simply too early in the year for anything in proper bloom and looks doubtful when he tells her he'd seen Andraste's Grace in full flower earlier that spring. He buys the best he can find and hopes it's enough, heading for Eamon's estate with flowers in hand and hope in the back of his mind, propelling him onward.

The interior of the estate seems dark after the brightness of outside. After checking to ensure she isn't in the main dining hall he heads down to the private rooms, the noise of the rest of the estate falling away into a murmur in the background.

He knocks on her door, straightening a little and trying to scrape together words as he waits for the door to open. It doesn't. After a minute, he knocks again.

"She isn't in there," Stephen offers, and Teagan jumps because he hadn't heard anyone approach. When he turns Stephen's blinking up at him frankly, naked but for smallclothes and scratching the back of his neck.

"She…" Teagan stops, baffled. "Where are your clothes?"

Stephen shrugs, coloring in embarrassment. "I… um. Setthemonfireonaccident." He winces. "Don't tell Therrin?"

"You set them on fire?"

"It was an accident," Stephen insists. "It was only a little fire and I already put it out. But Leliana isn't in there."

Teagan looks him over doubtfully—but nothing's smoldering, and Stephen doesn't seem hurt—and so he decides this is a matter for Therrin's attention, not his. "Do you know where she is?"

"In the library," Stephen answers. "Are you going to kiss her?"

"Excuse me?"

"You have flowers," Stephen points out, as if this makes all the sense in the world.

"I'm…" Teagan gropes for words, baffled, wondering how he got into this conversation in the first place, but Dog trots around the corner and gives Stephen a gruff, disapproving _whuff_ that sends the boy scurrying back to his room. Dog follows him away.

The door clacks closed behind them, leaving Teagan alone in the hall, perplexed. But he shakes himself after a moment, heading for the library with a deep breath, rallying his resolve.

Leliana isn't there, either.

Instead, he stumbles into Cullen and Therrin, who startle when he walks in. "Teagan," Therrin says, faintly peevish at Cullen's shoulder.

Cullen leans back in his chair, looking weary. "Did you need something?"

Teagan looks from Cullen to Therrin, both of whom wear almost identical expressions of frustration. "I was looking for Leliana," he admits, feeling suddenly intrusive. "Stephen said she was in the library."

"She was," Therrin says, frowning at the flowers clutched in his hand. "You're not giving her _those_, are you?"

Teagan glances down at the flowers, feeling bizarrely awkward. This wasn't supposed to be so convoluted. He was supposed to walk in, find Leliana, and manage something spectacular. As it is, he feels stymied in an increasingly surreal set of circumstances, unsettled enough to be taken completely aback. "I… yes?"

Therrin huffs a bit, dissatisfied. "Here." With no more warning then that she pulls the flowers from his hands, magic building in her palms. "Is there any particular occasion? I didn't miss her birthday, did I?"

She looks perturbed enough that Teagan confesses, "Not that I know of. I'm going to…" Blue trails of magic wind up the previously pitiful-looking flower-stems, which look greener by the moment, stronger, the sealed buds opening one by one in a light cloud of fragrance as the white petals unfurl. In half a minute, they're all in bloom, the leaves glossy and green and looking oddly rejuvenated. "I'm trying to propose," Teagan finishes, bemused.

Therrin's demeanor changes in an instant. "Oh! Good."

"Good?" Teagan echoes, faintly incredulous. Granted, when he'd proposed to Therrin the circumstances had been rather different. Still, her enthusiasm takes him by surprise.

"Yes." She hands back the now-blooming flowers with a friendly, pleased expression. "Good luck."

"Thank you." Teagan can't shake the feeling of oddness; Therrin standing there expectantly doesn't help at all. "You should know Stephen set his clothes on fire," he confides. "He was in the hallway in his smallclothes a few minutes ago."

Therrin's pleasant expression fades. "On fire?" Before he can say another word she sweeps past him, disappearing down the hall without a backward glance.

In his chair, Cullen sighs.

"I apologize for the interruption," Teagan offers, unsure. "I didn't mean to intrude."

Cullen grimaces. "No, it's just…" He gestures tiredly. "You're not the first."

A servant-boy cranes his neck to see into the library as he walks past in the hallway, hurrying away when Teagan frowns at him. "I see."

"Or the second," Cullen volunteers dully.

"My apologies," Teagan says again, backing away. "I'll leave you to it."

Cullen rubs his hands over his face, looking ill, and Teagan can't escape the room fast enough.

He finds Leliana in the sunroom, face cradled in one hand and dozing above the open book in her lap. After his first second of surprise he tries to retreat and leave her in peace, but he isn't completely well yet and the exertion of walking all day is catching up with him in a rush. He sways a bit at the doorway and knocks into the spindle-legged table by the chair, and before he can reach out it topples, hitting the floor with a crash and startling Leliana awake.

"Teagan!" Leliana blinks twice, clutching the arms of the chair and frowning in confusion. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," he answers, embarrassed and bending to pick up the table. "I apologize. I didn't mean to wake you."

Leliana moves in an instant to help, righting the narrow little table and putting an arm out when Teagan's balance wavers.

He looks down at their wound-together arms, a feeling of significance pooling in the back of his brain. He'd reached out without thought. "Thank you," he manages with something like surprise, not letting go, "for everything. Every time I've needed anything you've been there, immediately. And not just… this…" he gestures with the flowers at their arms, hoping she understands.

Leliana nods, silent and waiting and very serious.

"But before that, as well," Teagan continues, determined, gaining back his momentum. "At the Circle Tower, the entire incident with Therrin and before that, in your letters. You don't know how much I looked forward to them. No matter how bleak the situation seemed, you were always such an encouragement."

"Teagan…"

"It's merely," he continues, and runs out of words, because it isn't merely anything and he hardly knows what to say. Surely it had never been this difficult, before.

Leliana smiles, a soft expression. "Teagan."

He thinks that perhaps she already knows, and it seems to most natural thing in the world to lean in that last little distance and kiss her. Leliana seems surprised, and there is a moment of uncertainty for Teagan before she responds, but while it starts out uncoordinated it quickly becomes something else, long and slow and sweet. The angle isn't perfect—and when he tries to correct it, his thigh hits the table and there's a moment's exasperation of _oh, not _again as it wobbles—but she threads her fingers into his hair and hums a soft, appreciative noise and everything else seems to fade away.

When he finally pulls away he hesitates, because this seems as close to perfect as any moment they've had before and there's no point in waiting. "You mean the world to me, Leliana," he says quietly. "I can't imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else." Her eyes are large from shock, and if ever there was a time to get right to the point it has to be now. "Would you marry me?"

Leliana's expression falls. "Oh, Teagan." Which isn't a no, but her hands fall away from his arms and when she turns from him he catches the agitation in her expression. "I can't." Her glance back at him is troubled. "There are… circumstances I never told you about, from before I came to Ferelden. I have not been honest with you."

Teagan's constricting anxiousness at the non-answer eases. "You were a bard in Orlais. Alistair told me," he explains at the flash of indignant surprise that sparks in her eyes.

"Did he?" she demands, perturbed before softening. "You… you don't care?"

"I wish you'd told me before," Teagan admits, leaning against the doorframe. "It might have saved some time."

"I was quite taken with you," Leliana admits. "I wanted you to think the best of me."

"I do," he insists.

Leliana sighs. "It doesn't matter. You are going to be an arl," she reminds him, crossing her arms. "You will need someone more appropriate, not… not me." She smiles, sadly this time. "Redcliffe will need—"

"This isn't about Redcliffe," Teagan interrupts. Leliana falls silent immediately. "Or rather," he continues on, "not only about Redcliffe. Leliana, I never wanted to be the arl, but if I'm going to do it there's no one in the world I'd rather have at my side. You're clever and brave and I love you."

Leliana stands very still. "You love me?"

The words have their own peculiar weight; they settle onto him like another skin, comforting in ways he couldn't have expected. "Yes," he admits, as much to himself as to her.

"Teagan," she protests, looking frazzled a moment. "You should have just _said_ so!"

There isn't time to formulate a response to that; she's in his arms again before he can speak, kissing him fervently and cradling his face in her hands and he tries to reciprocate but there's flowers in the way. "Is that a yes?" he manages when he can.

She smiles impishly, pleased and eyeing the flowers. "Yes. Are those for me?"

Teagan hands them over. "Of course they are."

Leliana cups a white blossom in her fingers, quietly delighted. "They're very lovely." With the utmost care, she sets them aside on the wobbly little table.

_She needs them_, Therrin had said, _regularly. _Teagan thinks he'll have to see to it that she gets them. There are gardens at Redcliffe gone too long untended; if they make her smile he'll have them planted in abundance.

But for now she's smiling at him, and there's still a hint of mischief in her eyes but something else, as well. "Is there any chance we could get back to what we were doing?" Teagan blinks… but _kissing_, she means _kissing_, he realizes, and at his split-second confusion she laughs, the sound changing to a contented little hum as he decides that words are overrated and obliges her.

-oOo-

The city is as sprawling and busy as Dog remembered, and though it doesn't have the rich-wet-dirt smell of the road in springtime there are a hundred new scents to enjoy. There isn't time to enjoy them, though; Therrin is always running and Dog hurries to keep up.

Leliana and Therrin go to the market for a day out together before Leliana goes to Redcliffe. Dog had known they would go in-and-out of shops and he trails along patiently, and Stephen trails behind him, and Zevran trails behind _him_ looking thoughtful and walking slow. Dog doesn't know what's so important about lace or ribbons or why Leliana lights up at the sight of them, and he doesn't know why Stephen jumps up and down at the sight of a dragon doll and grins for the rest of the day when Therrin buys it for him, but they are all happy to be in Denerim and so Dog is happy, too.

Even with the happy talking of the women there is still the hanging shadow of going-to-Amaranthine. Zevran grumbles about it when they stop to eat, but looks like his heart isn't in it. "Not that I don't enjoy the company of Grey Wardens," he says, and slips a bite of meat nimbly off his skewer. He ignores Dog's best pleading look. "But when you aren't killing darkspawn and overthrowing governments you can be very dull."

Therrin looks at him. "You don't have to go, if you don't want to."

"Don't I?" Zevran leans back, popping the meat in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "I have an oath that says otherwise. Unless you have orders that send me elsewhere again, in which case I'd be glad to hear it. Amaranthine is supposed to be cold and foggy in the spring."

Leliana smiles, teasing. "And the fog does terrible things to your hair, is that it?"

"The fog does marvelous things to my hair. That isn't the point." Zevran gives a half-second leer, which makes Leliana laugh.

But Therrin doesn't laugh, and she doesn't notice when Dog tilts his nose and sniffs in the direction of her lunch. "I'm not going to hold you to your oath, Zevran. You can go wherever you like. You don't have to come with me to Amaranthine."

There's a long pause as Zevran gives her a level look, considering. "Are you releasing me, then?"

Dog hears the strain in it but he doesn't know if Therrin does because her ears aren't as good and so she misses things. "Yes," she says. "I think you've more than fulfilled it, by now."

Zevran smells like relief and sadness, all at once, and Dog doesn't know why.

"Why?" she asks. "What are you going to do, if you don't come to Amaranthine?" She slips a bite of meat down for Dog and it is tasty and warm and just-right, and he swallows it down and eyes the rest of the meat on her skewer.

Zevran gives a quiet laugh. "Do?" He thinks. "For now, I am going to let you buy me a drink. And after that…" He shrugs, a catlike motion. "We shall have to see."

Later they walk back to Eamon's estate, very slowly. Zevran trails behind them all as Leliana and Therrin stand close and talk, and Stephen leans on Dog, tired and holding his dragon-doll close. "Mmm, no," Dog hears Leliana say, and Therrin stops and turns around. "Zevran, where would…"

But she trails off, and Dog looks behind them. The street is full of people but Zevran isn't one of them. He isn't in any of the open doorways or in the little alley or anywhere, and Dog doesn't know how Zevran disappeared or why, only that he is gone.

Dog pushes his head up under Therrin's hand so that she'll get distracted from being left, but he doesn't think it works.

It gets worse when Oghren leaves.

And Zevran is a friend and so Therrin misses him, but Oghren is like-a-brother and leaves without telling her goodbye. She doesn't even know he's gone until she follows Leliana to the palace and the king brings it up, troubled, saying he'd left a letter of resignation and disappeared. Therrin is worried and furious and other things that make her smell like a thunderstorm waiting to happen, pacing down the side of the room and scowling. "You didn't think to send a message before?"

Alistair sighs. "I was pretty sure he'd have told you, or left you a letter or something. He didn't mention it at all?"

"I haven't seen him," she retorts immediately. "Not since we first got to Denerim. Where does he live?"

Alistair doesn't know. While his back is turned, the queen picks at her breakfast and looks green. She glances up at Dog, considering, and then carefully holds out the square of sweetcake from her plate, and Dog edges close and takes it gently, licking crumbs from his jowls as she wipes her fingers off on a napkin. "Good boy," she whispers, and he sits very still and lets her pat the back of his neck, and she smells sad but he doesn't know why.

"Why don't we know?" Therrin demands. "He's a _general_, by the bleeding Fade, how is it that none of us know where he lives?"

"Because I didn't exactly go over for visits," Alistair points out, losing patience. "And you were never around."

It isn't an accusation but Therrin stops anyway, looking sick, and later that afternoon back at Eamon's estate she curls up on the very large bed and wraps her arms around her knees. Dog paws at the bed at first, whining. One of the servants had scolded him for jumping on furniture before but he thinks Therrin might not care. The bed dips precariously as he jumps up, digging at the linens and snuffling at Therrin's neck.

"I'm losing people, Dog," she tells him, and sounds small, and so he wriggles close so she has to put her arms around him, and he licks her face so she knows that Oghren and Leliana and Zevran might leave but he never, never will.

They slip out that night. The city smells of wet stone and rainwater and they skim through the shadows quietly, walking in a hurry. Dog follows closely but Therrin isn't going anywhere in particular, just restless like running away and even as Dog keeps close to her side he worries.

There's no place to run to, anymore.

But she doesn't talk and no one bothers them. It is drizzly and a little cold and so the streets are empty, and they walk and walk until Therrin stops, utterly lost, and Dog whines and leads them back.

The estate is dark when they get in, the lamps burning low and the guards sleepy, and Therrin doesn't pay any attention to anything and so nearly runs into Cullen in the hallway before she can stop. Dog growls a warning, low and rumbling, but neither of them are listening. They stammer and forget how to talk and try to move past each other, but it doesn't work at all because they try to walk the same way at the same time, and then the _other_ way, and Dog sighs and flops down on his belly on the floor because this could take a while.

"Good evening," Cullen says when they both give up, and he stands in the hallway looking confused at the beads of water on her hair and robe. "Were you outside?"

"Yes," Therrin answers, not looking at him directly. Cullen isn't steady, he wobbles on his feet and smells like tears. Therrin glances his direction, hesitant. "Are you all right?"

No, Dog thinks. "Yes," Cullen says anyway, and Dog growls because he is a very poor liar. "I couldn't sleep."

Therrin looks at him then, and sees for herself that Cullen is very clearly not all right, and her expression goes softer. "Do you want—"

"Warden!" a servant boy interrupts, relieved as he rounds the corner. "You're back!"

The boy doesn't hear Therrin's tight hiss of frustration but Dog does. The moment in the hallway is already broken, though, and with a last look back Cullen heads slowly for his room. Impatiently, Therrin tries to explain to the servant boy that she has killed an Archdemon and so it should not be cause for alarm if she goes for a walk at night to get some air, but the boy is more worried than he should be.

When she finally manages to shoo him off, she gives Cullen's door a lingering look, standing uncertain in the hall, but when she takes a deep breath and walks over, ready to knock, Stephen opens his door and drags himself out, bleary-eyed and complaining. He needs water, he needs his dragon-doll, he needs attention no one else can give him, and Therrin sighs, sounding disappointed. It takes forever to get Stephen back to sleep; when she does, the entire estate is quiet and near-dark, and there isn't any sound coming from Cullen's room so she goes back to her own, disheartened.

The servant-boy was probably told to watch for you, Dog tells Therrin as she climbs into bed, and she looks very unhappy as she nods. "I thought so. I can't wait to get out of here," she confesses into the dark, dragging her fingers through the fur on his ribs.

Dog can only agree.


	39. The Full Circle

The inside of the chantry is empty, save for Cullen. In the middle of the afternoon the templars outside admit him with polite nods and little notice, and inside the sisters are occupied elsewhere.

Light streams down from the high windows, dust motes hanging in the sunbeams and making the great stone building seem otherworldly, suspended in time. In the quiet Cullen feels finally alone, for once not the perpetual solitude of waiting on the convenience of others, but a sense of peace and private contemplation.

Why he'd thought to come back here, he doesn't really know. The chantry is familiar, intimately, eddies of memories from years back seeming to pool in the corners and seep through the stones. In the silence, Cullen takes a seat and rests his head on the back of the bench, thinking. He prods at the still-blank spots in his memory and wonders if Therrin will get his note.

Or if she'll come even if she does.

The little talks they'd managed at Eamon's estate had been prohibitively public, snippets of careful conversation here and there, with servants ever bustling back and forth and Stephen and Dog hovering nervously in the doorways. There had been so much to say and no way to do it subtly, but even so they'd managed to nudge out facts here and there. Therrin's questions had been unusually circumspect, probing gently at the subject of lyrium and if he'd found any, taken any; his own questions had been more straightforward. He's missing a good deal of time, he finds, and her answers about what happened in Lothering are hesitant and incomplete.

It makes him uncertain he really wants to know, but at the same time, he feels that he should.

A pair of women come and pray and leave, and Cullen waits in the empty chantry, untroubled by the passing of time. He'd waited much longer at a stretch as a templar; an hour or two is nothing in comparison. In the quiet, Cullen simply thinks, turning over memories like pebbles in his hand as they come trickling back slowly, quietly, a fragment at a time.

When the afternoon starts to deepen into evening Therrin peeks inside the chantry, looking quizzical a moment before she spots him and heads over. Cullen almost asks if she got his note as she slips into his row and has a seat, but it seems obvious that she did. "Hello."

Therrin looks a bit wry. "Hello." She glances up at the high ceiling. "I always get nervous in these places."

Cullen frowns, hoping he hasn't made a misstep. "Do you?"

Therrin tries to smile. "The principle of the thing, mages in the chantry."

"Ah." Cullen hesitates, wondering if he should've chosen another location, but no, she doesn't seem nervous, not more than has become normal.

"I'm not about to run off screaming," she says mildly, as though reading his thoughts. "You wanted to talk?"

Cullen shifts on the bench, trying to fight off the feeling of being tongue-tied. Easy enough to ask to talk in a letter, but with the both of them face-to-face and alone, the whole thing becomes more difficult. "I just needed to get away from the estate, I think," Cullen manages, swallowing thickly. "It's not exactly the most comfortable place to try and talk."

Therrin gives a half-smile, fidgeting with a crease in her robe. "I won't argue that." When he doesn't answer, she considers him silently, head tilted in thought. "How are you?"

Which means so much more than _how are you?,_ Cullen thinks, it means _how much do you remember_ and _how stable are you_ and an entire host of things that won't be asked directly. "I'm better," he answers, trying to seem casual and not babble out the depth of the feelings that had hit him full-force the other night, a staggering weight that had made his chest ache and made the bed feel very lonely. "You?"

"Good," she says, sounding only a little strained, the flick of her eyes away from him giving away the forced lightness of the word. "Dog likes being back in the city, and it's all new to Stephen. And getting ready to go to Amaranthine has kept us busy."

The mention of Amaranthine is surprisingly unsettling; the mention of it without the expectation that he'll go along is even worse. He feels a cold spike of something like panic at the thought of losing everything now, after all they've been through. Surely, he thinks, grasping at straws, surely she wouldn't just leave.

But if she hadn't just left Denerim in the first place, she'd likely never have come back to the Tower at all. Cullen braces himself and gives up on small talk altogether. "I'm told I tried to kill you. Twice."

Therrin blinks in surprise. "Yes."

He resists the urge to tap his fingers on the back of the bench, unwilling to fidget or get distracted and let the chance for real conversation slip away. "I don't remember either attack, but I do want to apologize. If I haven't already; I don't remember that either." He'd been trying for rueful; it doesn't quite make it.

Therrin crosses her arms and watches him carefully, no longer so guarded but seeming very still. "What _do_ you remember?"

Cullen takes a deep, quiet breath, pushing at the edges of his memories and hoping it's enough. "Not everything," he admits. "I'm still getting things back, slowly, which is… frustrating. Most of what happened from when we left the Tower until we were nearly to Denerim is a blur, but some things are clear." He isn't sure that the flood of those memories is the wisest thing to bring up, of fighting darkspawn and later, pressing her into the bed and… but there's no point in holding back now. He might not get a chance like this again. "I remember spending the night with you and thinking it was the last sane few hours of my life," Cullen confesses, throat tight but not looking away. "And before then…" He hesitates. "I seem to recall you turning into a mouse."

Those memories had been unlikely enough that he'd tried to dismiss it as a lyrium-dream, but it had kept coming up over and over, too clear to be anything but real. Therrin laughs, to his surprise, and relaxes a little against the back of the bench. "You weren't very happy about it at the time."

"No," Cullen concedes, trying not to seem too eager to seize on the subject, to trip over himself trying to lay out everything in his mind in an attempt to prove the return of his memory. "I think the tail was a bit more than I was prepared for."

The side of her mouth twitches in a smile before her expression falls serious again. "What about before we left the Tower? Do you remember much of that?"

"Some," he admits, nodding. "Not everything. Most of it's come back, the… the feelings, the images. I don't remember going to the Tower in the first place." He tries again to trace back the memory but there's a formless blank where he knows something ought to be. "I remember being in training to be a templar, taking my vows… but then nothing until I was actually posted under Greagoir's command. Little things keep coming back to me, conversations, that sort of thing. But there are still gaps in what I can remember."

Therrin props an elbow on the back of the bench, her expression carefully blank. "Do you remember Uldred's attack on the Tower?"

Cullen hesitates. He has the feeling there's more to the question than it seems, and doesn't quite know what she's probing for, so he settles for the simple answer and hopes it's enough. "Yes, I do. It's not all clear," he amends, because then, too, the absence of lyrium during countless hours trapped in the magic-cage had threatened to devour him, the blood mages and their visions ripping rivulets of pain into his head. Even now it's blurred at the edges but he shudders involuntarily at the memory: the screams of his brothers, the sense of slipping, fading as they'd gurgled and groaned and died, the awful silence when he'd realized he was the only one left alive.

He'd left it hanging, he realizes, and Therrin's still watching him, waiting. "It's all there," he finishes. "It was confusing at first, trying to sort out the truth from the visions. It all came back at once and I didn't know how to manage it." It had been more than confusing; it had staggered him entirely, a wrenching force in his mind and an overflow of contradictory feelings. He'd been lucky to be alone. If someone had seen him on his hands and knees, dry-heaving and babbling about blood mages, the situation would have worsened at once.

Therrin nods, understanding. "I didn't bring it up to be cruel," she says. "But before, when you tried to kill me. I had to wonder, after, how much of it was the withdrawal, or if it was something you'd been carrying around ever since Uldred's attack and just had the control to keep hidden."

_You can't honestly believe_, Cullen almost begins, and stops. Her knees are curled on the bench, filling in the distance between them; she is silent and waiting and if ever there was a time for total honesty it would be now. Cullen takes a breath, trying to choose his words carefully. "I don't think it's ever going to go away," he admits. "Even now—or before, rather, back at the Tower—I still thought about what happened. Had nightmares about it." He pauses. "I'm never going to stop being a templar, not at heart. I don't know how to be anything else. But the worst of what I'd felt under Uldred's mages is in the past."

Therrin contemplates this in silence, tracing the pattern in the wood bench with a fingernail.

"Besides," Cullen adds belatedly. "You were never among them, anyway. I never thought that about you."

_But you still tried to kill her,_ his memory reminds him and he tries not to wince. From the dismal half-grimace that flickers across Therrin's mouth, she's thought of it, too. For a moment the weight of the past and the burden of all they are seem to lie between them in vast, brambled spaces. "I don't think it was ever going to be perfect," Cullen offers, the words sounding hushed in the near-empty chantry. "Or easy, or… uncomplicated."

"No," she agrees quietly, looking wistful.

Cullen hesitates a moment. "But I'd like to _try_."

Therrin doesn't bother to conceal her surprise. "You would?" It barely sounds like a question, and she shakes her head in impatience. "I didn't know how you'd feel, when you recovered. _If_ you recovered." She frowns, uncertain. "And you've been so quiet."

"It isn't easy," Cullen admits at last. "It was very confusing not to remember anything. It was all I could do to do as I was told and hope for the best. And even now, there are things I don't know, or only half-know…" He trails off a moment, praying that this hope will be enough, won't be crushed out when it's all still so fragile. "But I know how I feel about you."

Therrin goes absolutely still. And he'd hoped the moment he'd said it that she'd respond—some admission of feeling, of love or relief or rejection or _something_—but she doesn't. Instead she sits, frozen, for what feels like a very long time. Finally, she says, voice cracking: "Oh?"

Her arm's still propped on the back of the bench, her hand dangling; on impulse Cullen takes her hand and pulls it into his. Therrin gazes at their intertwined fingers in a numb sort of silence, not pulling away but not coming any closer, either. "It hasn't changed, Therrin." He swallows, difficult around the thickness of his throat. "I knew there would be difficulties. I didn't expect how much," he confesses. _Or how steep the cost could be, or how close a thing it had really been._

Therrin's eyes are red-rimmed. "I don't know what to say." She frowns again, wavering and tearing her eyes away from their hands to give him another searching look. "I love you. You know that." She shakes her head, dissatisfied and not catching the wave of relief that breaks over him all at once. "I had gotten used to the idea that it was hopeless, that you'd be different, that you wouldn't know me or want anything to do with me and we'd just be strangers and I'd go to Amaranthine without—"

She stops abruptly, dropping her head and considering their hands again, and though her eyes are dry Cullen gets the sense that might change at any second. "I'd still rather go with you," he ventures. "If you'd want me to."

Therrin clears her throat, looking up at the ceiling in a visible effort for composure. "I would go alone if I had to," she says finally. "But I didn't want to go without you." She searches his face, uncertain, and the hope that had been pressing out from beneath Cullen's ribs feels less painfully fragile.

"I don't know what I'd do in Amaranthine," Cullen admits, thinking. "I've never been before, and I'm not a Warden. But if you want me along, I want to go with you. To Amaranthine or… or wherever else. No, _please_ don't cry."

"I'm not," Therrin protests, though it sounds suspiciously watery as she rubs at her eyes. When she looks up she considers him for a painfully long moment, and Cullen tries not to let his mind churn into nervousness under the starkness of her regard. But the moment doesn't last forever; to his surprise she edges closer, sliding along the bench to sit against his side, and out of something like habit he puts an arm around her shoulders. (Muscle memory, it must be, he doesn't remember doing this but it feels right.)

"As far as Amaranthine goes," Therrin begins slowly, curling her arms around her knees, "I'll have to do what the Wardens ask of me. Alistair said they needed a figurehead, someone to help out with the arling. I don't know what that means, exactly," she concedes. "But as much as I can, I want to live… quietly. There was a reason I came back to the Tower. I was tired of fighting," she tells him, and bites her lip. "If you wanted to come with me…"

Cullen nods.

"We could… try?" Therrin continues. "Without the Tower, without the Chantry or… or anything else, we could get away from the entire mage and templar thing and just be people. Does that sound crazy?"

_A little_, Cullen thinks, and there's a sinking feeling in his gut that it's never going to be that easy, but he isn't going to ruin things now. "Not entirely."

She smiles; this time it's genuine. "Not that it's something that'll ever go away," she concedes. "But we could have a chance, and try to do this, together." She looks up, cautious and hopeful. "Do you want to?"

_I've wanted to for _years, he almost begins, but he stops himself, settling for an honest, "Yes, I do," and resting his chin back at the top of her head when she leans it against his shoulder.

The chantry is silent then, the sounds of their breathing lost in the empty space, small in the vastness of the stone building. _A chance_, Cullen thinks, the thought like an unexpected prayer. _Just a chance._

It's more than he would have hoped for, once.

Cullen thinks that perhaps a chance is all they need.

 

* * *

A/N: And so ends "What We Become".

At the completion of a project this size, some thanks are in order: First to Bioware, for making Dragon Age in the first place and providing such a lovely sandbox to play in. Close behind are CJK for being an incredibly awesome beta and NotLaura for professional-grade whipcracking and handholding- without the pair of them indulging me as I moaned for the thousandth time "_but I cannot dooooooooooo this_", it's unlikely this story would've been finished, and certainly not so quickly. Also a huge, effusive thanks to everyone who read, everyone who reviewed or put the story on their favorites or alerts- the encouragement has been _overwhelming_. Thank you all _so _much. I'm more touched than I can tell you.

And: the story is, effectively, complete.

However, a brief epilogue will be posted in a few hours, should anyone care to read it.

And you know this already, I'm sure, but you guys? Are _awesome_.


	40. Epilogue

Goodbyes are not Therrin's strong suit.

It had been so much easier to be the one who left, once, instead of being the one left behind. The sudden losses of Zevran and Oghren make Leliana's departure all the sharper, makes the sudden loneliness sting. She hadn't let on to Leliana; it would have been selfish. Still, from up here on one of the balconies of the palace she watches Teagan and Leliana's carriage roll away and feels only a quiet, nagging sadness.

Stephen and Dog help—the distraction of keeping them from bounding right over the edge is an odd sort of relief—and Alistair is occupied admiring Stephen's dragon doll (_statuette_, Alistair insists at Cecily's arched eyebrow). When Cecily turns that skeptical look on Therrin, Therrin shrugs, and the not-quite-laugh that passes between them eases the tension just a little bit more.

It feels odd to have this particular group together, like a misshapen remainder of something else—Alistair and Cecily, Stephen and Dog, and Cullen—

Cullen stands at the railing of the balcony, looking out over the city.

Therrin steps over beside him, watching the carriage disappear from sight. He doesn't speak—Maker knows he was quiet enough before, and now he only seems even more silent—but his hand slips across the stone and finds hers. That small flicker of private happiness flares to life again, so much like it had been at the Tower in the depths of winter: quiet, and hopeful, and theirs alone.

There's a small flurry of noise and Alistair's on his feet in an instant, frowning in concern, but the servant who opens the doors is looking at Therrin, troubled. "Grey Warden, ser. She said it was urgent."

There's a woman with her that Therrin's never seen, clearly a soldier, moving as comfortably in armor as though she was born wearing it. When she turns back to look behind her Therrin catches a glimpse of the heraldry on her shield.

A griffon.

"Warden Amell," the soldier-woman says, a rigidity in her posture as though she's moments away from snapping to attention and saluting. "My name is Mhairi, of the Grey Warden recruits at Vigil's Keep. I was sent to retrieve you, to see you to Amaranthine."

Therrin's blood seems to run cold in an instant, a seeping dread pooling in her belly. "Retrieve me?"

Mhairi looks uncomfortable, darting a glance at the king. "Yes, ser."

Alistair cuts off whatever else she would have said, drawing himself up and looking impressively regal. "Is there a problem?"

"No, your Majesty," Mhairi says hurriedly. "I mean… _yes_, your Majesty. The situation in Amaranthine has grown tense, your Majesty."

Alistair frowns. "I was led to believe it was already tense."

Mhairi's tongue darts out to lick her lips. "It was, your Majesty. It's become progressively worse the last several weeks. The Orlesian Wardens decided it in the best interest of the order to name Warden Amell the Knight-Commander of Ferelden in absentia. I was asked to return with you immediately, ser."

The world seems to stop. A nerveless panic crawls along Therrin's skin, her tongue going numb in her mouth. This feels like a mistake, like a terrible mistake, but she looks at Mhairi and knows it isn't.

It feels like everyone is looking at her expectantly; she should say something, _anything_, but her throat feels as though it's closing and all the air in the world is gone. Therrin hears Alistair as though from very far away, and at his words Mhairi nods and retreats to the corner of the far corner of the balcony, giving them what little privacy they can have.

She does not want to be the Warden-Commander. The bone-deep drive to run kicks in with surprising ferocity but there's nowhere to go. She does not, _Maker_, does not want to be the Warden-Commander… but Alistair is looking at her, and it hadn't been so long ago at all that they'd stood on a lower floor of this very palace, and he'd looked at her with his heart in his eyes and meant _please don't make me king, I don't want to be king._

There had been no one else. She had done it anyway. And there isn't anyone else now.

She isn't about to say _I don't want to be the Warden-Commander_ to Alistair.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Therrin somehow manages, and she notes dimly that it sounds unnaturally calm which is ridiculous because she's the furthest thing in the world from calm.

"You are such a bad liar," Alistair retorts with an uncomfortable laugh. "You went pale so fast I thought you were going to faint." Apparently she can still manage a disgusted glare; it makes Alistair grin. "Look on the bright side, though. You won't be the only woman Warden this time."

"That's true," she forces out, fidgeting with a fold of her robe and fighting a surging, paradoxical tranquility. Every sense seems heightened, everything going chaotic but clear, like that moment just before battle begins. "Small mercies."

Alistair's amusement fades. "I'd meant to head up to Amaranthine anyway, to see how the Wardens were doing. I can't leave…" he casts a harried glance in Mhairi's direction, "immediately. But I won't be far behind. We'll see you settled."

Therrin nods, stiff with tension.

"Take care of yourself," Alistair says, with so much sympathy Therrin's eyes sting.

She nods again, less stiffly. "You too."

He steps aside and the whole thing seems to come up in a rush.

_As much as I can, I want to live quietly,_ she'd said. So much for that, now. She thinks she should've known better, and when she looks to Cullen he is as quiet as ever, a thoughtful cast to his expression.

"So," Therrin manages as he gets closer. "Warden-Commander. They must be really desperate."

Cullen gives a small smile. "I don't think so."

Therrin raises her eyebrows. "No?"

"No."                                      

She leans on the balcony a second, trying to organize her scattered thoughts. "I know this isn't quite what we'd talked about." She bites her lip, uncertain because the words _Warden-Commander_ seem leaden with duty and sacrifices yet to be made.

"To Amaranthine," Cullen says, musing. "Or wherever else. Remember?"

Therrin nods, trying to resist the feeling of being pulled inexorably onward.

"This doesn't change anything. Not for me," he says quietly. "I'll go where you do." He huffs a very soft laugh, the corners of his mouth curling in amusement. "Commander."

The best glare she can manage is a half-hearted, pitiful thing that only makes him smile, but it doesn't matter. She nods and feels him fall into place beside her as she heads for Mhairi, information already running in quicksilver streams through her mind. Change of plans or not, they'll have time, she'll see to it. They have time to figure this out, to make this work, an entire future of possibility—

But that will come later.

For now, Amaranthine—and the Grey Wardens—are waiting.

 

* * *

A/N: So.

Anyone up for a sequel?


End file.
